The Ninth Circle
by ShadowMajin
Summary: When one man stands up for a fallen city, the consequences aren't always desired. Such is the nature of Gotham City.
1. We Need To Talk

Hey folk, ShadowMajin here. Hard to believe I haven't posted a story in awhile, but I'm back, and that's what matters! Today I bring to y'all my first non-DBZ fic and I'm very excited about it. This story is the first in a long series I have planned, along with help...a lot of help...from AnonymousVoid. When he heard my idea for this story series, he wanted in and has been helping me along the way. Hope everyone enjoys it.

* * *

"Would ya look at this? Crime up 15 percent. Bloody shootout at Italian's turf. What is world coming to?"

Dmitry took his eyes off his switchblade and looked at his partner, Boris. Boris was reading out of the latest issue of the Gotham Star, his broken English doing the headlines a disservice. The scruffy-looking guy had the paper wide open, revealing in bold print the main headline—the skyrocketing crime rate. Apparently the Italian's shootout had been relegated to the back pages.

"15 percent, eh?" he replied as he rolled his eyes, his attention going back to his knife, twiddling with it with his fingers. "How they know? Is there measurement they have?"

"Must be Italian's fault," Boris surmised noncommittally as he chewed loudly on a wad of tobacco, closing the paper and crumpling it into a large ball. Casually, he tossed the ball to a side, the paper wad bouncing on the dirty sidewalk along with the rest of the litter-covered street. The street cleaners needed to do a better job here, or else the Boss might start taking issue. Every other street in the city could go to hell, but as long as _his_ street was kept clean, the Boss would be content.

And when the Boss was content, everyone was better for it.

But then, the streets always looked like that. The lights of the streetlights showed off the soiled streets and overloaded trashcans. Gotham was just a beaten, polluted city—always had been, always will be. In a way, it reminded Dmitry of the Motherland. It was quite comforting.

The buildings themselves weren't that much better than the streets. Graffiti covered most of the building fronts, some designs huge, others small. Most had a common theme, though; the designs on this particular street marked it as belonging to the Russian mob. The Boss, Mashkov, wanted it known that this was his turf and anyone that wanted to do business there had to do it through him—just like in the Motherland.

There were other people here too, though they avoided the dilapitheted-looking building that Dmitry and Boris stood in front of. They knew better than to go anywhere near that building. Vagrants, all of them.

"Everything is Italian's fault," Dmitry stated as he flicked his knife shut and stuffed it into his pocket. He then held his hands in front of his face, blowing hot air from his wide-open mouth in an attempt to warm them up. He did his best to ignore Boris' loud lip smacking—such a raucous sound… "They are unsophisticated and have no art."

"I do not know what word you used there, but," Boris paused as he spat out a wad of tobacco-infused spit, "that is what I think of Italian's crew."

"Crude," Dmitry sniffed, rubbing his hands together, heating his hands with the friction.

Before their enlightening conversation could continue, the glare of headlights had both Dmitry and Boris straightening out their posture. They held their stances until a dark car came to a stop in front of them, perfectly parked next to the sidewalk. They had been waiting for this car to show up all night. The lights dimmed and shut off as the driver and front passenger side door opened, two large men in expensive suits stepping out, stony expressions on their face. The one that emerged from the passenger side door closed his door and immediately opened up the back passenger side door. This time a skinny-looking man came out, he too wearing a suit. He seemed quite bored to be there, but then he was required to be here. Only a fool ignored a summons from Mashkov.

"You are expected," Boris greeted, moving to the front door of the building and opening it. Dmitry moved out of the way of the skinny man, allowing him to head to the door unimpeded. His name was Neski, one of Mashkov's lieutenants.

And just like a man in high esteem of the Mob, he replied snootily, "Of course I'm expected here." Unlike most of the Russians here, he had managed to perfect his English; that was something not even Mashkov had bothered with. "I wouldn't be here otherwise."

Both Dmitry and Boris kept their faces blank, not daring to glance at one another, but they both had the same thought. _Prick_. Neski was good at what he did, so there was no question of his position in the family, but that still didn't mean he had to be such an asshole. One day his usefulness to the family would end and he'd have to be disposed of—and there was a line of people stretching around the block that would love to have the opportunity. Though, there were plenty of others just like Neski in the family.

Fortunately, Neski was the last to arrive. Good thing too, Dmitry was getting bored playing doorman. It was time to get this meeting underway.

* * *

Vladimir Mashkov watched as Neski and his men entered the room, Neski taking a seat at the table as the "hired help" stood behind him. The table itself was of poor quality, a distorted, ruined piece of craftsmanship that Mashkov wouldn't have looked twice at had he no need of this building. Yet he did. It was one thing to hold family matters in the streets of Gotham; it was another to have them at the Ritz Carlton. Some places just weren't meant for unsavory matters.

That was the only reason why he was even in this rundown building. It had been a former shop for something Mashkov didn't care to remember. The former tenants had left it to rot some years ago, just letting it sit there uselessly until he had bought it and made it his meeting place. Just because it was shithole on the outside didn't mean he let it waste away. The inside of the room had been renovated, replacing decrepit floors and walls with sturdier structures. Mashkov would be damned if he let the building just fall apart on him.

But while the room itself had been restored, the furniture had been second-hand; all had been taken as late payments from those who owned him their very souls. They still owed him more than a ripped couch though, but sometimes providing relief from a staged execution would encourage better business.

Resting comfortably in his chair, Mashkov greeted his last arrival. "It is good to see you Neski."

"You're looking very well, Sir," Neski replied. "Your continued health brings me much relief."

Mashkov let the corner of his mouth twitch, the closest thing he would give to a smile. "Tell me, have you found arsonist yet?"

Neski bowed his head before answering, "No Sir, but we're getting close."

"Close?" Mashkov asked pleasantly. Then like a bullwhip, his arm flew up and his hands slammed onto the table. From the force exerted, the table creaked ominously. "Find him _now_!" he roared, scaring the men in the room. "This man hurt business. My business! He is nuisance that won't go away! If you cannot find this man, I find someone that will!"

Neski trembled as he nodded his head, gulping. "Yes Sir, I will find him."

Mashkov relaxed in his chair. "Good. I don't need to tell you what happens if you fail."

"N-no, Sir."

"That is good," Mashkov said. "I like you. I would hate for something bad to happen to someone I like."

Silence followed that statement as Neski didn't have the balls to say anything more. In fact, he knew braver men who didn't have the balls to say anything to him when he was…angry. He tended to get carried away…

He blinked, recalling he was in the middle of something. "Let's go to simpler topic: what is happening at port? I hear somewhere that authority is becoming strict. You are handling it, da?"

"It's the new port authority and he's demanding a higher fee," Neski reported, becoming more relaxed. "Fortunately, that will not be a problem for much longer. I hear that some individuals are unsatisfied with him and may take preemptive measures."

"Anyone you know?" Mashkov asked.

"No one that can be tied to me," Neski boasted.

Suddenly, the lights cut out, filling the room with therkness. Immediately, there were cries of surprise along with the sounds of several men drawing their guns. Mashkov could hear the audible clicks of the gun hammers being cocked back. Although alarmed, the Russian kept to his chair, keeping himself calm. It was most likely the generator went out and caused the black out—this was a poor neighborhood after all. Besides, the men in this room were getting paid to protect him, so it was good to see…hear them on their feet.

"Someone get lights back on!" one of the men shouted angrily.

"Quiet all of you," Neski fired back, seeking control of the situation. "One of you, go check outside and see if this is a neighborhood thing. The rest of you stay calm." Finally, that weasel of a man was doing his job. Some semblance of order was being—

That's when he felt it. It was as if a stray breeze had lightly graced his face. Though it wasn't anything that would normally be setting off sirens in the Russian's head, he knew that he shouldn't have been feeling it. Who had heard of a breeze being inside of a windowless room?

Apparently, a couple of the others had felt it too as one of them asked out loud, "Did anyone feel that?"

A scream suddenly rang out, causing all of the men to jerk to its source. No one made any other move due to their lack of sight. A moment crawled by before Mashkov felt that breeze once more and another ear-piercing shriek filled the room.

That had proven enough for the other men in the room. One man shouted out as he began firing his gun, followed by the shouts and gun discharges by the other men. Bursts of light from the firearms lit up all over the room, causing Mashkov to press himself further into the back of his chair in an attempt to keep from being shot. It was because of the lights that he caught glimpses of _something_ flying all over the room, picking off his men one at a time, their terror-filled screams ringing out as they were assaulted. One moment a man would be standing there, firing his gun; the next he'd be jerked to a side. A few of them looked as if they were hit by a truck. A rather loud scream filled Mashkov's ears as someone went flying by his head. Panicked eyes darted from side to side as the man tried to follow the madness that was occurring before him. Horror filled the Russian as he realized the number of men still standing were plummeting at impossible speeds.

And then the room fell silent. The only thing Mashkov could hear was the sound of his own harsh breaths. His heart pounded in his chest while his arms shook on the armrests of his chair. A bead of sweat trailed down from his forehead as the silence around him lengthened.

That was when the lights began flickering back on, slowly at first, but eventually staying lit with a steady drone. Right in front of him, the Russian found a large mass of darkness perched on the table in front of him. Although appearing malformed, Mashkov could make out a head with twin horns emerging from its crown; white, murderous eyes were glaring at him, causing an unfamiliar feeling to grip the man's heart. If he had to call it anything, he would have said fear. The Russian couldn't tear his eyes away from this creature, ignoring the sight of crumpled bodies scattered about the room, broken and shattered pieces of guns sprinkled on the floor. The walls and ceiling were covered with bullet holes, some of which were still smoking.

That was when something shot out from the dark mass and grabbed the collar of Mashkov's shirt. Immediately, the Russian felt the familiar shape of fingers against his neck, the cold touch of some cloth roughly scratching against his skin as the hand twisted his collar, causing him to choke.

Then with a powerful tug, Mashkov found himself pulled out of his chair and held right in front of the mass' face. Faintly, he could make out the sight of a human-looking mouth at the bottom of his sight, though that was the least of the Russian's worries. With eyes wide with terror, he stared into the white eyes that bored into his. More sweat appeared on his forehead, trickling down the sides of his face as fear caused his breath to quicken further.

Mashkov lost all sense of time as his mind came up with horrible scenarios of this…this…this thing ripping him apart and feasting on his entrails. There were other images, but that one featured prominently in his head. He was on the verge of hyperventilation, his mind unable to imagine anything more horrifying that this one moment.

And then it spoke.

"Valdimir Mashkov," it growled. "We need to talk."


	2. Just Doing My Job

"I am so done with you, Bruce!" the woman snapped angrily. Her voice rang throughout the large lobby, her words bouncing from the polished marble floor and walls. People in expensive business attire either stopped in their journeys to destinations unknown or looked up from one of the many leather chairs or couches to stare at the dark-haired woman as she confronted a much larger man. "It's always the same with you! The gambling, the booze, those damn floozies you let drape all over you. I've had it!"

"Charlotte, please," Bruce begged desperately. "I'm sorry, really I am. You know this isn't easy for me. It's...it's hard for me to connect with people. Not since my parents...just, please, give me another chance."

"No, never," Charlotte said with conviction. There was an elevator next to them and she had every inclination to hit the up button. She was a woman scorned and she would be damned if she let some half-hearted appeal to her emotions get the best of her. "You always ask for another chance. I believe I've given you quite enough!"

Bruce's handsome features twisted in grief. "I...I thought you were different. Someone special. But you're just like anyone I've cared about. You'd rather leave than—"

"Oh no you don't!" Charlotte interrupted heatedly, eyes flashing with anger. Raising a dainty hand, she pointed a manicured finger at him and said, "You will not turn this on me! I am not the bad guy here!"

Bruce's larger frame sagged in resignation from the proclamation. "Then why are you leaving?" he murmured softly, peering woefully through pained blue eyes.

Charlotte's blue eyes gazed at him coldly. "I've already told you that."

"I heard that reason. Now tell me the real one."

That caused a frown to wrinkle the woman's beautiful face. "What are you talking about?"

Bruce straightened out his posture and closed the distance between them with a powerful stride. "You're not leaving because I drink a little too much. I rarely gamble as it is. And those other women you know damn well I don't care about them. I can't control them anymore than I can control the weather. So why are you really leaving me?"

Charlotte was at a loss of words. The way this man was looking at her, the heat that was burning from her face, it was all too much for her. "It...I..." she could only sputter out.

"I'll tell you the reason," Bruce murmured softly to her, lowering his head to hers. She stood there frozen as this incredibly handsome man's face neared her ear, his hot breath caressing her ear despite the strands of dark hair hanging between them. "You're in love with me and you don't know how you can handle it."

If Charlotte thought her face was red before, it was practically scarlet now. She wanted to say something, needed to say something, but the only thing she could do was open and close her mouth like a goldfish. It seemed as if an eon passed before she managed to whisper, "How did you know?"

His voice grew louder as he replied, "Because I feel it too. You're the only one that makes my heart race in my chest every time I see you. No one has made me feel so alive, not even Andrea. I'm madly in love with you, Charlotte, and I will move heaven and earth to make sure that you're never unhappy again."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Charlotte's lush lips. She raised a hand and began gently running it alongside Bruce's face, her fingertips brushing against his gelled, dark hair. "I...I think I'm falling for you, Bruce Wa—"

A loud ding cut through the air, interrupting the woman's words. Curiously, the couple looked to a side, just in time to see the metal doors of the elevator slide open and reveal a rather tall man in a very expensive black suit. His broad shoulders and were nearly as wide as Bruce's, if not wider, and his lean figure was expertly fitted within his clothes.

Whatever thoughts that were in Charlotte's head died a swift death as she took in his gorgeous features. This...this...guy was an Adonis in comparison to Bruce! That was the only fitting description she could come up with and she had vainly tried to make several up, some of which she was sure didn't exist. Even the bored look on his face couldn't change her impression of him.

Upon this mystery man's arrival, his blue eyes had focused on Bruce, then lazily moved to Charlotte. The moment he saw her, those uninterested eyes lit up hungrily. Before she knew it, the man was standing right next to her, snatching up her free hand and laying a kiss to her knuckles. "Well hello there," he greeted her with a deep, rumbling voice.

A part of Charlotte died at the moment. That voice, she could barely process it speaking to her. She would have killed to have it spoken to her again. Her mind was so clouded with thoughts of this guy, she barely noticed the affronted look on Bruce's face as he gaped at them, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly as he tried to say something. Any further recognition was killed cruelly as a strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her front-first into the mystery man's chest.

_Oh God, this guy is rock hard._

"I don't believe we've met," the man said to her as he tilted his head towards her, his voice smooth as honey that flowed into her ears meltingly. Charlotte really, truly wanted to say something, anything to this beautiful man, but every word was like ash on her tongue. "Allow me to introduce myself, I'm your future."

_"CUT!"_

Charlotte, Bruce, and the mystery man froze where they stood, each looking alarmed. One by one, they turned to face the source of the enraged, high-pitched voice. That was when the rest of the lobby's occupants came into focus—mainly the production crew and their equipment. Charlotte had been doing her best up to that point to ignore their existence and had completely succeeded when the mystery man had appeared. However, when the short and pudgy man known as Theo van Sant—one of the most respected directors in Hollywood—shouted, you tended to give him your full attention.

Bruce, however, wasn't at all shy about confrontation. "Damn it, Theo!" the man bellowed at the director. Pointing right at the mystery man, he demanded, "Who is this guy? Why is he interrupting _my_ scene? That was the one! It was perfect!"

Theo immediately went from angry to apologetic in the matter of microseconds. "Matt, Matt, Matt, the scene could have been better. You were terrific, but we do need to take a couple more shots," the director soothingly said.

Charlotte's brow furrowed at the implication. She was doing her best here, damn it. She may have been some small town girl with dreams of stardom and didn't carry nearly as many credentials as Mr. Matt Hagan, but someone in casting had deemed her good enough to work with the prima donna. That had to count for something.

"I am not going to spend all they on this one scene, Theo," Matt warned with a growl. "We've been on this one blooming scene for two days and I'm absolutely sick of it. You know what? I'm done. I'm done with today. I'm going to my trailer!"

And with that, Matt Hagan spun on his feet and stormed away, much to the horror of Theo van Sant and the exasperation of the audibly-groaning crew. As Matt disappeared around a corner, Theo went right back into rage-mode and turned his livid attention onto the mystery man. "See what you've done? You just lost me an entire they of shooting!"

It was the mystery man's turn to look apologetic. "I...I'm sorry?"

Charlotte blinked her eyes in bewilderment at that. Though he looked sorry, his words didn't nearly carry the remorse she thought he felt. If anything, he sounded confused. Theo, however, didn't really care. "I don't know who you are, or even who you _think_ you are, I know people. You better believe that I will see to it you can't ever, _ever_ find another job in this town. I personally know Bruce Wayne; we're very good friends. All I have to do is ask him and he'll do anything for me."

The man looked absolutely lost by this threat, much to Charlotte's own confusion. "You do?"

"Of course I do! _Why_ do you think I'm filming a movie in his own freaking building?! Now get out of my sight!"

The man continued to stare at Theo before shrugging his shoulders. "Alright, I guess." Barely a second later and he turned back to Charlotte, his earlier confidence coming back full force. Hooking his arm with hers, he began leading her away from the elevators. "Now then, where were we?" he said suggestively.

Theo, again, began shouting. "Where do you think you're going with my actress?!"

The mystery man looked over his shoulder at the director, giving him a rather bored expression. "You said your day is wasted right? That means this lady right here is free and I think she'd rather be with me than you."

Charlotte immediately looked at Theo, shaking her head frantically as terror covered her face. The last thing she needed was her boss to think she wanted nothing to do with this film; she needed this role for Pete's sake!

However, Theo looked as if he didn't care. He just turned his back on them and stormed away—not a good sign. Helplessly, Charlotte found herself being taken away from the production team, a sinking feeling filling her gut. No way would this be good for her.

As the distance between her and her job grew, Charlotte felt the man lean into her. "Now then, perhaps we should get better acquainted," he said, his voice stirring deep within the woman. "Mind telling me your name?"

For a moment, Charlotte was at a loss before her brain registered the question. "Oh...umm...my name is...uhh...Julie. Julie Madison," she sputtered out. _Ugh, c'mon girl, get it together!_

"Pleasure to meet you, Julie," the man smiled handsomely. "I'm Bruce Wayne."

It took all of five seconds for Julie to stare at this self-professed Bruce Wayne before her head jerked back to stare at her director. It proved to be good timing too as one of the many assistance Theo had under his employ had approached him and whispered something to the director. Instantly, he whipped around to look towards her and Bruce Wayne, his face as white as a sheet.

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. "So you aren't friends with Mr. van Sant?"

"Who?"

"The director. The guy that was screaming at you."

Bruce glanced back, once again bored, and then turned back to her. "Oh, him. Never met him before in my life. Or maybe I have. Very possible. But then, there are _so_ many other things to pay attention to." At this, Bruce Wayne eyed her from head to toe, something that made Julie's face burn red.

"Th-thank you, Mr. Wayne," she murmured.

"Please, call me Bruce," he replied, shooting her a wide smirk. When she looked to protest, he continued, "No really, please. Mr. Wayne was my father and I'm not even close to how old he was."

"I...I don't mean to be rude, but I don't feel comfortable calling someone as important as you by their first name," Julie admitted.

"So then we need to get to know each other better!" Bruce exclaimed as they reached one of the many glass doors that opened out into the street. Grabbing one of the shiny gold door handles, Bruce pushed the door wide open, allowing Julie and him to walk through it and onto the sidewalk between the building and the street. "I have the perfect idea too! Tonight will be the 37th Gotham Gala and wouldn't you know it, I don't have a date. It would be my pleasure," at this, Bruce Wayne gave her a hungry look, one that excited Julie even further, "if you would accompany me there. What do you think?"

How could she say no to that? This was Bruce freaking Wayne! And he was asking her, _her_, to be his date at one of the most prestigious balls in the city. Of course, she was assuming it was prestigious because why would someone like Bruce Wayne go to anything less?

So while she wanted to say, "Take me, I'm yours," and risk a very pointed look from Bruce that would say he caught her unintended innuendo, instead she said "Yes, I'll go...with you."

Bruce Wayne unleashed that lady-killer smile of his, thoroughly blowing away the last remaining brain cells in Julie's mind. "Wonderful! I know you'll enjoy it! There's going to be so many people and I even heard some movie stars." He paused for a moment. "Well of course there will be since you're going!"

The world around Julie was nothing more than a silent blur. As she stood in front of Bruce Wayne, taking in all the gorgeousness that made him...well, him, she couldn't think of another moment in her life that could top this. If it could last forever, she would have given everything she had to do it.

Unfortunately, Bruce had to flicker his eyes from hers and to something over her head. Whatever it was immediately wiped the smile from his face. Frowning, Julie resisted the urge to ask him what was wrong and instead turned around to see what was so disturbing to the dark-haired man.

Several blocks away a large, thick cloud of black smoke rose into the sky. It was then that Julie began to hear the sound of fire engine alarms wailing somewhere in the city, obviously rushing to the source of the smoke.

* * *

The stench of burnt wood and flesh permeated the air. If there was ever a time James Gordon wished he had a backlog of paperwork that demanded his attention, it would be now.

Polished black shoes soon traded lush carpet for smoked-stained concrete, the swarthy aroma increasing in intensity. Traces of smoke tainted the air and further irritated his nostrils, forcing Gordon to breath more through his mouth than his nose. Whoever was responsible for this did not have any consideration for the officers who would have to investigate it.

The crime scene was located within the remains of a burnt building. There was still a portion that had miraculously not been touched by the fire, but as for the majority of it, it could not be said that it was pleasant to look at. It had taken firefighters nearly two and a half hours to contain the blaze and put it out; once it had been declared safe, Gordon and his officers had taken to investigating the scene, sealing it off from the general public until further notice.

They had scores of men, all of them experienced investigators with years of training and sharp minds. They would comb over every inch for every single clue that survived the inferno. They would develop suspects with whom to interview; they would bring the perpetrator or perpetrators to justice; all of this would fuel them as they all began investigating.

Well, to be more precise, Gordon and a couple of rookies would be investigating.

It was a sore sight to see veterans of the police force shirk their responsibilities, the true reality of the immediate crime scene. It was an embarrassment really. See, most of the men in the department had been vying for the recent opening as new commissioner of the Gotham Police Department. The former commissioner, Commissioner Loeb, had decided to take a vacation out of the blue and just up and left. Although perplexing, no one had really thought about it—some men had even commented about taking their own vacation time.

That all changed when Loeb was spotted at his exotic choice for his trip. A trip that ended at Gotham Bay. A trip that ended at Gotham Bay with a pair of new shoes, shoes that were made of solid concrete.

Needless to say, Loeb was on indefinite leave.

Upon the Loeb-sighting, a massive push for the former commissioner's office sprang up. Lobbying efforts came from all corners of the city, from mob gangs trying to place their own choice in the position to politicians doing favors to various donors to anonymous death threats. In order to improve their chances, cops of all ranks began acting like respectable officers that would never take illegal contributions from corrupt sources. They became the perfect picture of ideal law enforcers.

And yet, their efforts were for naught. Despite the lobbying, offers, and threats, Mayor Hamilton Hill was adamant to keep his campaign pledge to rid Gotham of corruption. So instead of selecting one of the many men that wanted the job, Hill selected the only man to not have some lobbying force behind him.

That man was him, Former Police Sergeant James Gordon.

Yes, the reaction to that promotion had been chilly at best and downright frozen at worst. Gordon couldn't blame all of them, especially the deputy directors and lieutenants he inadvertently and unintentionally leapt over to get the job. Still, they could've been more professional about their displeasure. Instead of going back to work, nearly every man on the force decided they didn't have to work. Caseloads per cop were at their highest levels in decades, the unsolved cold case files were increasing in numbers. It was as if every man wanted to make Gordon look so bad that Hill would have no choice but to fire him and pick a new commissioner.

Walking over crumbling pieces of what was once wood and maybe one of those odd-looking, new age, art sculptures, Gordon sniffed loudly as he rubbed a finger beneath his nose, feeling the hair of his bushy mustache as he did so. Hearing the crunching sound of breaking debris beneath his feet, the man soon spotted one such example of the laziness that had overcome his police force. A man the commissioner recognized as Police Sergeant Gil Mason and a detective whose name slipped his mind at the moment were kneeling next to each other, appearing to be examining the remains of a wall. The upper part of said wall had been incinerated in the blaze and what was left of the bottom half formed jagged beams that reached to the sky as if in agony. However, Gordon knew these men weren't investigating as much as they were chit-chatting, shooting the breeze if you will.

"You catch that Knights' game last night?" the detective asked.

"Yeah, Berkley almost blew it," Mason replied, sounding grumpy as always, his face scowling more than usual. "I don't know why they keep that guy around. He's cost them more games than he's won for them."

"Probably because of that championship he won with them a few years back," the detective suggested helpfully.

Mason snorted. "That was a lucky fluke. Berkley was a rookie on a team stacked with talent. If it wasn't for Ward making that circus catch in the end-zone, they would've lost."

"Ahem." Both men turned their heads to look at Gordon, who loomed over them, his eyes boring into their backs through thick glasses. "If you two wouldn't mind, we have a crime scene to investigate."

"We're workin', we're workin'," Mason scoffed, the rolls of his pudgy body shifting as he shifted his feet and legs beneath him. "Investigating takes time 'Commissioner,' or have you forgotten that already?"

The other detective chuckled. "Yeah, he must think this is Central City or something."

Every part of Gordon's being wanted to lash out at these men. He really wanted to punish these men for insubordination, but if he did that with every officer that acted this way, he wouldn't have a police force to speak of. He was literally between a rock and a hard place. If he suspended one man, he would have to suspend every man for the same offense and that offense occurred hourly. Nothing would get done and it would put Gordon right back where he started except with even more disgruntled men doing even less work.

"Hey schmucks!" a loud voice bellowed out. "Hurry your lame asses up! I don't got all day to smell like a chimney!"

Gordon let a small smile appear on his face as the large, disheveled frame of Detective Harvey Bullock approached him, heavy footsteps pounding against the concrete floor. If there was one man Gordon could count on, it was Bullock. Admittedly, he wasn't the best detective on the force, what with all the admittingly-true accusations of brutality that borderlined assault. In fact, he was on the take just like all the other cops. The difference was that Bullock didn't accept bribes like everyone else. He saw them as gifts and pocketed them. Then he would beat the tar out of whoever had the balls to bribe him and arrest them. He was an interesting character to be sure.

And if the men of Gotham PD wouldn't work for him, they would at least make themselves busy around Bullock. Due to his many years of working with Gotham PD, Gordon had gotten into a routine of confrontation-avoidance—not something a commissioner needed, but was necessary when a young man needed to protect his family from ruthless thugs. Bullock had no such attachments and even encouraged confrontations. Once a group of corrupt cops tried to bully the man at his own home. That led Bullock to pulling out a shotgun and telling them that if they ever tried it again, he'd come to all their houses and blow their brains out. Then for good measure, he fired the shotgun at them as they were running with their tails between their legs, shattering the back window of their getaway car.

In a lot of ways, Gordon wished he could be that bold.

While Mason and the other detective busied themselves, Bullock turned and addressed him like he was a fellow cop despite his recent promotion. "So, Com'mish, any ideas on why somebody'd want to torch a nice dig like this? Not that I blame 'em. Place still looks better than mine."

"Well, we know this was a local hangout for Moxon's group," Gordon replied, taking a quick glance around. "And there's plenty of people who aren't big fans of him."

"You say that like it's a problem," Bullock said, sticking a toothpick into his mouth and fiddling with it with his teeth.

"Well, it makes our list of suspects longer than necessary," Gordon said dryly.

"I thought it was standard procedure that our suspect lists were long," Bullock shrugged, keeping his teeth clenched to hold his toothpick in place. "So who isn't on the list?"

"Well, if you want to do it that way," Gordon replied with a shrug of his shoulders, "I know I didn't do it. How about you? Were you here torching the place?"

"I wish." Bullock grunted.

"That makes two people who didn't do it."

"And ten million other people who may've."

"It wasn't the Russians either," the detective alongside Mason pointed out, trying to be helpful.

"And what makes you think that?" Gordon questioned skeptically.

"Gotta agree with him," Bullock added thoughtfully. "Word on the street is Mashkov hightailed it a couple nights ago. Left his little buddies high an' dry. They're trying to get it together, but so far no dice. And none of 'em like that Neski guy, so he's no threat either."

"So who does that leave? Loman? Falcone's guys?" Gordon asked, throwing out random names.

"It could be the Italians, or the Scots, or any of the other gangs," Mason continued, a slight whine in his voice. "I'm betting on some stupid kid with a couple of matches and accidentally setting the place on fire. No conspiracy or some shit."

"Well, lucky it's your job to find that out," Bullock said, looking pointedly at his fellow officer. "Last I heard, this was your crime scene."

Mason looked away, obviously not pleased by that. Gordon had to hide a look of admiration at the bullish detective's manner of assigning responsibility. "Well, when you're right, you're right," he said. "Mason, take some of the officers and canvass the scene."

"Officers?" the sergeant spoke incredulously. "The only officers here are rooks! How do you expect me to get anything done with a bunch of greenhorns fresh out of the academy?"

Gordon wanted to say, "If your fellow officers actually did work, then you wouldn't have to have rookies." Instead he kept quiet and let Bullock handle it.

"If anyone actually did work, then you wouldn't have to have the rooks. But hey, ya got Fivel here to help ya out. I'm sure between you two and the rooks, you'll have this thing figured out before supper time."

"Well, you heard him gentlemen," Gordon said. "I expect to have your reports done and on my desk first thing in the morning."

"And you heard the Com'mish," Bullock announced loudly for all to hear. "We don't got a lot of daylight left and I don't think you boys want to be out here all night either."

"Oh and Mason," Gordon added, sounding as if a thought popped in his head and he didn't want to forget it. "I need a patrol to watch the scene in case someone tries to tamper with it. I'm putting you in charge of the team."

Mason began doing his best impression of a goldfish as the commissioner turned on his heels and began trudging back to the street. A second set of footsteps followed after him, but because of the heavy thudding they made, Gordon didn't need to look to know who it was. "Thanks for that," he called back.

"Thanks for what?" the husky-sized detective shot back, a careless tone in his voice. "I was just doin' my job."

* * *

I don't think I've ever written a scene that had as much sap in it is the movie scene. I think I died a little on the inside from it, but it paid off so incredibly well. I have to admit, I think I went a little too far until I saw the old Batman TAS show and saw a clip of a Matt Hagan movie in it. Surprisingly, I think I didn't go far enough after viewing that. Very scary thought.


	3. It Was Probably Nothing

Julie blinked her eyes repeatedly, the result of what felt like hundreds of bright flashes blinding her. It was her first time walking down a red carpet—not _the _red carpet that led to those fabled awards shows she so desired—and she was unprepared for the mass of paparazzi that swarmed the entrance. Luckily, Bruce was a veteran of such functions and had expertly guided her through the throngs of camera flashes and demanding questions.

Julie had been excited as the limo had approached the Ritz Carlton, the site of the Gotham Gala. She was dressed in her best, form-fitting blue dress and called in a favor to have her make-up professionally done by the make-up artist for van Sant's movie, which made her feel ready to be presented to this lavish world that every celebrity craved for.

And yet, as she stood at the threshold of the Carlton's ballroom, she felt as if she hadn't been born yet.

The room was humongous. A polished wood flooring with marble walls engraved with what she thought was gold was beyond anything she could have comprehended. To be sure, she had dreamed of being in such a setting, but to have that dream presented in front of her made her weak at the knees. Julie was pretty sure Bruce was the only thing holding her up as their arms were linked together.

There were other decor about the room, but Julie honestly couldn't put a name to it all—comforts reserved for the rich and powerful. There had to be some hoity-sounding word that went with it all, but she wasn't going to make a fool of herself trying to pronounce it. Besides, the large crowd of people that filled the room were more interesting to gaze upon. Men in expensive suits and women in even more expensive dresses mingled with one another in a way Julie knew she would never be invited for.

At least this time.

"Ready?" Bruce's cheery voice reached her, returning her back to her date. In her opinion, Bruce was the best-dressed man here despite him wearing the same suit every other man was wearing. Probably had something to do with her being with him, she imagined.

However, whereas Bruce was comfortable in this place, Julie knew she was in over her head. "Yes," she managed to say, her voice nearly smothered by the quartet playing in the corner of the room. Violins and cellos and those other string instruments were being expertly played, creating another level of atmosphere for this room.

Somehow, Bruce heard her—or just took control, she didn't know which—and led her into the conversation mass of people. Keeping pace with him in her high-heeled shoes, Julie marveled as Bruce nodded and smiled at various people, taking to the crowd like a duck in water.

"Bruce!" a boisterous voice rang out, causing the dark-haired couple to stop. Looking for the source of the voice, Julie spotted a handsome man with gelled red hair approaching them, his arms held out to his sides as he smiled at them.

"Tommy!" Bruce immediately returned the greeting, reaching out with his free hand and offering it to the redhead, the man accepting it with his own. "I'm glad you could make it."

"And miss the biggest part of the year?" Tommy asked rhetorically, "I think not. Especially since I knew you would be here."

"Sorry Tommy, but I already have a date," Bruce quipped. "Maybe next time unless this beauty gets to me first."

"And a beauty she is," Tommy agreed, turning piercing green eyes onto her. "Bruce, you always know how to pick them. You have got to tell me where you find them all, or do you have them stashed away in Wayne Manor somewhere?" Giving a chuckle, Tommy held out a hand for Julie to take. Recalling a role she once had, a minor one to be exact, Julie placed her hand into Tommy's. The jovial man lifted her hand up where he brushed his lips against her knuckles. "That's how it's supposed to go, right? Thomas Elliot, at your service."

"Don't go charming her away from me, Tommy," Bruce said warningly.

"Please Bruce, if I wanted to charm her, I would have done it already and left you all by your lonesome," Tommy—or was it Thomas?—replied. "I'm always six steps ahead of you."

"Yes, like you always keep telling me," Bruce said, turning his gaze back onto the overwhelmed Julie. "Tommy here is a bit of a flirt. Feel free to ignore him anytime."

"Now that hurts, Bruce," Tommy said, holding a hand up to his chest. "Right in the heart it does."

The way these two spoke with one another, it was like they had known each other their whole lives, Julie marveled. The back and forth, the jabs, the...was it flirting? Being in this situation was already placing her out of her depth and of all the things to experience, this friendly banter? It was almost surreal.

"All joking aside, I did have an ulterior motive for showing up tonight," Tommy said.

"Here it is," Bruce responded good-heartedly. "What is it this time? Another long shot venture capitalist?"

"Oh nothing of the sort. I won't go into details, but I will say that Elliot Pharmaceuticals has been cooking up something that you're going to want to get in on the ground floor," Tommy explained. "If you want details, you're going to have to make an appointment with my secretary. I promise you, you won't want to miss out."

"Now that's a first," Bruce said. "_I_ have to make an appointment to hear _your_ pitch."

"Six steps, Bruce," Tommy said, tapping a finger against his temple. "You can't tell me you aren't intrigued."

"Well, because it's you, I am," Bruce answered.

"Then make the appointment," Tommy pressed.

"I'll sleep on it and give you my answer in the morning. In the meantime, I want to enjoy my lovely company on this quite lovely night," Bruce told the other man.

"How could I deprive a beautiful woman of your attention? I should be placed in cuffs and hauled off to Blackgate," Tommy jested. "Sure, go on and enjoy the night before the trust fund brigade swoops in. Tell Alfie I said hi."

"You know he doesn't like that name," Bruce said with a laugh.

"Why do you think I keep calling him it?" Tommy replied, taking his leave and vanishing into the mass of black sport jackets and dazzling gowns.

Bruce muttered something under his breath that Julie didn't quite catch. She wasn't able to dwell on it though as her date suddenly began directing her about the room, introducing her to various people who seemed desperate for his attention or treated the man as if he were a couple cards short of a full deck. Once or twice there was a businessman of such-and-such corporation that did both. Still, all the talk and gossip that floated in front of the starlet's face were all above her head.

And then _she_ came.

"Bruce!" a voice cut through the hum and chatter of the ballroom. Julie and Bruce had been leaving the refreshment table at the time, so the man immediately slowed his walking, searching for the source of the voice. Julie didn't have as much trouble as she spotted a red-haired woman approaching them.

The woman's green eyes were completely focused on Bruce, a predatory glint in them. Her grey dress swished and flowed over her body as she strode towards them, angling herself towards the Wayne billionaire. "Bruce," she called out again, this time succeeding in capturing the man's gaze. To Julie's dismay, he immediately began ogling the woman. "I've been looking all over for you," she whined as she came to a stop in front of him, tilting her head up to give him a seductive smile. "I almost thought you weren't coming."

Julie narrowed her eyes at the woman. There was just something about this redhead that rubbed her the wrong way.

Bruce returned the smile, just as charming if not more than the other ones he had shown all night. "Veronica, you should know me better," he chided bemusedly. "I _never_ miss a good party."

Veronica merely sniffed as she rose her nose higher into the air. "I wouldn't call this good persay, but it is acceptable."

Bruce shrugged his shoulders, Julie feeling the motion as his arm was securely wrapped around her waist. "It all depends on the company you keep. I usually don't have trouble finding the right kind."

That seductive and increasingly annoying—to Julie—smile reappeared on Veronica's smug face. "Perhaps I haven't found the right company yet. Or maybe I just have."

Bruce's smile widened at the implication. "You should know, Ms. Vreeland."

"Eh hem," Julie coughed loudly, if not harshly, gaining the attention of the two Gothamites. Both of them stared at the actress blankly, something Julie expected from the redhead, but not Bruce. In fact, the man took a second longer to place her and he only did that second part when he noticed his arm was around her.

"And who are you?" Veronica asked, managing to sound annoyed and unimpressed at the same time.

Julie glanced to Bruce, fully expecting him to make her introduction just as he had all night. She could feel disappointment well up within her when he made no such move. "I'm Julie Madison," she greeted, not quite succeeding in covering up her own irritation. "I'm—"

"She's with me," the Wayne billionaire suddenly interrupted, his arm tightening around the dark-haired actress. "She's in that movie being filmed at Wayne Enterprises."

"Is she now," Veronica replied, not in the least bit interested.

"Absolutely," Bruce added with gusto. "Julie," he said as he looked to the actress, "I'd like you to meet a close friend of mine, Veronica Vreeland. She's the heiress to Vreeland Industries, one of the largest producers of...of...what does your company make again?"

Veronica shrugged her shoulders carelessly. "That's my Uncle's business, at least when Daddy isn't running off with the army."

Julie couldn't help herself as she stated, "You don't know what your own company does?" It wasn't something said in good taste, but the starlet wasn't someone to keep her tongue-in-cheek when she was being catty. And this annoying rich girl was making her _very_ catty.

"I really don't care," the heiress brushed off. "My family has a trust fund in place in which all the proceeds go into. The company pretty much keeps it full."

_Oh, she's a trust fund baby. Lucky bitch._ Julie could feel her dislike of the woman grow with every second she spent in her company.

"You know, Ronnie, you're free to hang out with us if you like," Bruce proposed suddenly. "You and Julie can get to know each other better and perhaps the three of us can enjoy ourselves after the party. _Together._"

Julie felt her mouth drop open as she stared at the dark-haired man in a cross of horror and shock. Was he really offering what she thought he was offering?

"As fun as that sounds, Bruce, I have a trip to the Caribbean tomorrow with a bunch of friends." Her eyes suddenly lit up as if she were struck with an idea—probably one of the few she had throughout her entire life, Julie groused. "You should come with us! We have room for _one_," she really stressed the one for emphasis, "more person. I know Daddy would be thrilled if you came."

For a long minute, Julie thought Bruce would jump at the offer. Part of her was relieved while another was sickened when the man's shoulders sagged and said, "Wish I could Ronnie, but Lucius tells me I have some big meeting that I have to attend."

Veronica's face fell with disappointment. "That Lucius is always making you do things. You know, Bruce, if I were you I'd put that man in his place. It sounds like you're working more for him than he is for you."

"The sacrifices one must make," Bruce replied, sounding as if he were a martyr. A cheeky smirk then began working its way onto his face. "Though perhaps we can get together when you get back. You can show me how your tan came out."

Veronica's interest returned with a vengeance. "That's a splendid idea, Bruce!" Julie spotted the woman licking her lips as she imagined the scenario. "I can't wait to see you when I get back."

Bruce flashed his knee-weakening smile at Veronica before leading Julie away. Julie kept an eye on the redhead, making sure the woman wouldn't follow them. Relief welled up in the dark-haired woman when she saw Veronica head off in a different direction.

That just left her with Bruce.

"You two seemed friendly," Julie said accusingly. She couldn't help herself. After witnessing that conversation between the two, she was wounded and angry. Bruce was going to hear a piece of her mind whether he liked it or not!

Bruce seemed caught off guard by the accusation. "Hmm? Are you talking about Ronnie? We go way back."

Julie gave him a doubtful look. "Is that the way your lady friends act around you?"

Bruce actually paused to consider that question. "Actually, she's my only lady friend. All the other women try to get into my pants as soon as possible."

That was _not_ what she wanted to hear.

"You're joking," Julie deadpanned.

"Not really," Bruce shrugged. Then, leaning closer to her, "Is it working?"

"Ha. Ha. You're a riot," Julie said bluntly without a trace of humor in her voice. "I just saw you flirt with another woman right in front of me. How can you find that funny at all?"

"Well I thought it was funny," Bruce muttered quietly, but not quietly enough.

"This isn't even remotely funny," Julie snapped angrily. "Up until now, you've been nothing short of a gentleman with me, but then your 'Ronnie' friend shows up and you're suddenly trying to get in her pants. Is this how you are with every woman you meet?"

"Nothing is going to happen," Bruce replied, sounding very put out by the turn of the conversation. "Ronnie is more bark than bite. We run into each other, we have a couple laughs, then we leave. That's it. It's just harmless flirting between friends."

"Is that what you call it? Flirting between friends?" Julie demanded, not knowing whether to be offended or shocked. Was this what all rich people were like? "Bruce, where I come from, we don't do that. It's one thing to be friendly, but another to...to insinuate...it's improper!"

"So you don't have some guy you flirt with?" Bruce retorted.

"No!" Julie exclaimed. "Why would I?!"

"Well, you are an actress."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I've met a lot of actresses," Bruce informed her. "And none of them were very modest."

Okay, he might have a point there, but she had one to make as well. "Not every actress is...promiscuous. I mean, some are, but not all. I've worked my way to where I was without having to...stoop to certain lows and I am proud of that, but I take offense when you lump me together with the rest of them. Everyone is different. It's like me saying that all billionaires are perverted old men."

Bruce frowned. "I'm not old."

"Do you see where I'm coming from? You're not old and I'm not promiscuous," Julie said. Then Bruce's words reached her. "Wait, you're admitting to the perversion?"

"I thought everyone knew that," a new voice said. For a split-second Julie felt the urge to growl. _I'm having a conversation at the moment, people! Wait your damn turn with the billionaire!_

Jerking her head around, Julie was on the verge of letting out her ire on this new interrupter when she found herself staring at a kindly-looking black man. He was one of the older men at the gala if his receding hairline was any indication. Currently, he was looking at her with amusement.

"Ah, Lucius," Bruce immediately greeted cheerily. "I was wondering when I'd run into you."

"Seeing as we work on the same floor, that would be everyday," the black man quipped. Then turning to Julie, he extended a hand to her. "Pardon my intrusion, I'm Lucius Fox."

That gesture blew the actress away. All night long Bruce had been the center of attention and she had been extended cursory glances. This man was the first to actually address her with something other than "Hello." Shaking away her astonishment, she reached for the offered hand and gave it a gentle shake. "I'm Julie," she said, finding herself at a lack of words.

"She's an actress," Bruce offered up, trying to be helpful.

"Is she now?" Julie could hear the earnest curiosity in Lucius voice when compared to Veronica's. She much preferred Lucius. "She wouldn't happen to be one of the actresses from that movie they're filming at Wayne Enterprises, would she?"

"Yep!" Bruce proclaimed proudly, looking exactly like a child that had received praise from his parents in regards to a drawing he had done at school.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Lucius said to her, giving her a gentle smile. "What's your role in this movie of yours?"

"I'm the lead actress, right under Matt Hagan," Julie immediately answered. For once, they were talking about something she knew about. It was a big relief.

"Congratulations." Lucius then gave a cursory look about the room. "You know, I could have sworn I heard someone mention that a few of the actors would be here too."

"Oh yes, a few of the bigger ones should be here." In fact, it was probably only Matt and van Sant since they were the only big names involved with the movie and neither were going to miss a chance at schmoozing with some of Gotham's wealthiest citizens. "I haven't seen them around here though."

"Maybe they're planning to be fashionably late," Lucius quipped again. Raising a hand up, he glanced to his wristwatch and added "They better do it soon though. Any longer and they'll miss the party."

Julie found herself grinning at the man. He was the most genuine person she had met her by far.

"Oh, before I forget," Lucius suddenly said, turning to look at Bruce. "We've made some more modifications to the WE0895. Thought you would be interested to know."

Bruce's gaze sharpened instantly. "Really? Mind if I have a look?"

Lucius chuckled. "I don't have it on me. I'll show it to you in the morning."

"We can go back to Wayne Enterprises. You can't just tell me things like this and expect me to wait!"

"I know, I know," the man said with resignation. Holding an arm to the side, indicating towards a doorway, he said "Follow me."

Julie felt Bruce move his arm away from her and walked after the black man. Her eyes followed the two as they vanished into the crowd, leaving her alone.

* * *

Despite the fact that it had been hours since the fire had been out, the smell had not gone away. The smell of burnt whatever offended Sergeant Mason's nose like nothing else had.

And he had to spend his entire night in this dump. He was here "in case someone tried to tamper" with the place. Fucking Gordon. He got the once-in-a-lifetime promotion while a hard-working man, like himself, had to continue working under him like some flunky. What was in this place to tamper with anyway? Ashes? _Whooo, someone wants to take some ashes, we have to stop them!_

Broken and singed wood snapped beneath his feet as he patrolled. Glancing down, the cop gave a look of disgust at the debris. Oh, how'd he like to give Gordon a taste of his own medicine. Bastard was living it up, in a nice, comfortable bed while poor Mason had to freeze his balls off out here. He turned his flashlight to and fro, lightening up the charred hallway he was patrolling. Christ, there was nothing here! It was all a huge waste of time!

They could probably have a couple cars stationed outside of the place and that was all the security that they would need. But noooo, Gordon has to have his panties up in a knot. Who in their right mind would want to come to this...this...this condemned building in the middle of the night anyway?

Oh, and let's not forget the report that had to be on Gordon's desk first thing in the morning. What the hell was he supposed to report? That nothing happened? Christ. Did Gordon not think he had a life of his own or something?

Peering into yet another fire-damaged room, shining his light on anything that had been spared, Mason made another cursory check before continuing on his way.

Why'd this place have to catch on fire in the first place? Whoever set it on fire had to choose today of all days when the big game was on. Well, okay, it wasn't a big game; a predicted shut out for the Knights, but it was still worth watching. It was better than this grunt job.

As his booted feet stomped down the ruined hallway, Mason disregarding some of the groaning that resulted. He was too pissed off to really pay attention anyway.

_"Mason? See anything?"_

Jerking out of his thoughts, he pulled out his radio and spat out, "What do you fucking think, Fivel? Not even the rats are here."

_"Just checking in. What's up your ass?"_

"Don't give me any lip, Fivel," Mason snapped into the radio. "I'm in charge of this dump. Don't make me make you look bad in the report."

There was no further response from Fivel, but Mason didn't care. He sure showed him. There was a reason they called him "the Bulldog." And no, it wasn't because of his smell. You don't mess with bulldogs, that why, and no one messed with Gil Mason.

Reaching the doorway of the room that the arson investigator tagged as the fire's origin, Mason flashed his light into the ruins, making another dull and routine look. Nope, nothing in here. Place looked like a war zone. The roof was missing, allowing the night sky to show in, revealing a few stars that weren't blotted out by light pollution or a tall, black figure. The walls looked just like the walls all about the place, marred with black burnt marks. Stepping away from the doorway, Mason continued on his way when he came to a sudden stop.

Slowly, Mason backed up to the doorway he had just left and peered back in. With his flashlight trembling, he directed the beam of light back into the room, searching for what he had thought was another person. No, nothing, just the same place with the burnt marks on the wall and...and...

It was crouched on the ground. Whatever it was, Mason couldn't make it out as it appeared to be some large mass of blackness crouching on the ground. The only thing that stuck out from it were blank white eyes that stared right back at him, as if glaring right into his very soul.

Grasping at his radio, Mason said, "F-Fivel? Fivel, p-pick up." The black _thing_ rose up, growing taller and taller. "Fivel, get your ass up here!" Mason screamed as he dropped the radio and pulled out his gun. Without thinking, he opened fire.

The black mass seemed to meld into the shadows, avoiding his bullets. Mason, though, was not concerned with accuracy and was instead shooting wildly in the hope that he would hit this thing. His bullets struck the walls, continuing to miss as the thing ducked, bobbed, and weaved, and just as Mason began to run out of shots, the black thing leapt _up_.

Mason froze as for a moment, whatever this thing was, it looked like...it looked...like...

...a giant bat...

And then it was gone.

Mason remained where he was, eyes focused solely on the opening in the ceiling. His flashlight slipped out of his grasp, falling to the floor with a clatter that did not pull the petrified cop out of his horrified stupor.

"Mason! Mason, what the hell is going on!"

Something jostled the sergeant, causing him to swing his gun around at whoever was next to him. A hand grasped his wrist, jerking the gun away as Mason fired another shot.

"Mason!" Fivel cried out. "What the hell are you doing?!"

Recognizing something familiar, that being Fivel, Mason regained his wits. "Get everybody up here. Call Gordon, whoever you can get. I just saw...I just saw a giant fucking bat!"

* * *

Gordon slammed his car door shut, a touch harder than necessary. Receiving a call at three in the morning and not having time to brew a cup of coffee did that to a man.

Cranky, stressed, and sleep-deprived, the commissioner made his way towards the burnt-out building. A brown trench coat hung from his frame, hiding the disheveled clothes he had hastily thrown on. At what was considered the front entrance stood a large crowd of police officers, all of them forming a large circle. While Gordon wasn't able to identify them all, he could pick out a few, such as Bullock.

"Alright, make way, make way," Gordon called out as he arrived at the back of the group. Instantly, the officers jerked their heads towards him before moving out of his way, parting before him. As a path formed, Gordon walked towards the center and found Mason sitting on a cooler, using it as a makeshift chair. Fivel was standing next to him, looking at the cop bizarrely. In fact, a lot of the cops had that same expression, though it wasn't much of a stretch to connect the expressions to the inane mutterings coming from Mason.

"It was staring at me with these eyes, these white eyes," Mason was saying, his voice laced with desperation and fear as he tried to get someone, anyone to believe him. "And, and then it flew into the sky! I swear on my son's life I saw it!"

"Whoa, whoa," Gordon interrupted, getting the attention of everyone there, including Mason. "What the hell is going on here?"

Mason immediately zeroed in on the commissioner. "Gordon, you have to believe me! I saw a monster; a giant fucking monster."

"You saw a monster," Gordon repeated cautiously. Raising a hand up, he began rubbing his forehead with his fingers. "Just hold on for a moment, alright?"

"I'm not making this up!" Mason shouted as he shot up onto his feet. Anger covered his face, making the man look like he was ready to fight.

"Nobody is saying you are," Gordon said calmly, trying to placate the cop. "Now, start at the beginning. Tell me everything."

"Alright, okay," Mason calmed down, though his anxiety from before returned. "I was on patrol, just like you told me to. I'm looking out for anything suspicious, you know, and so far, nothing. Then I find this...this...well, it looked like a shadow of something. It was black and it was like it was...crouching? Kneeling? It was on the floor. I turned my light on it and it grew or...or..."

"Stood up?" Gordon said helpfully.

"I don't know, but it was _huge_!" Mason declared, a heavy emphasis on huge. "Massive. I've never seen anything like it before! I called for back-up and I...the thing, it started to move. I...I-I-I pulled out my gun, told it to freeze. It didn't. It runs at me and I, I shot at it. But I didn't hit it. It was so fast. Then—"

"You did what?" Gordon interrupted. "You opened fire on a crime scene?"

"You weren't there!" Mason cried out, grabbing the commissioner by his shoulders. "I didn't hit it and then it just...it flew up and out of this place. I swear on everything holy, it fucking _flew_!"

"You said it was a giant bat," Fivel said.

"_Yes_," Mason hissed out. "That's what it looked like. A giant bat from the depths of Hell!"

"You saw...a giant bat," Gordon deadpanned, his head tilting forwards as his glasses slid down his nose. "That's what this is all about?"

"You gotta believe me, Gordon! You weren't there! I was!" Mason shouted.

"You opened fire on a giant bat at a crime scene that we are still processing," Gordon said, before he hissed, "Are you out of your mind?"

"I told you, it came at me!" Mason exclaimed. "You weren't there!"

"I don't care!" Gordon roared, causing everyone to jump. "You fired your gun on a crime scene! Your bullets are lodged in a wall, contaminating everything! And you expect me to believe that some kind of creature was there that made you do it? You're a cop, a detective. You of all people should know better than to discharge your firearm on a crime scene." Gordon shook his head in disbelief. When he stopped, he raised a hand and pressed the tip of his middle finger against the bridge of his glasses and pushed them back into place. "I've heard some wild tales in my time, some of them coming from you, Mason, but that's it."

Turning around Gordon faced the crowd of cops. "Starting now, there are _no_ more excuses. There will be no more contaminated crime scenes or lazy police work. We're professionals for Christ's sake!" At this he aimed his frustration at Mason, glaring the man down. As he returned to the crowd, he continued, "As members of the Gotham Police Force, we _will_ uphold the law; we _will_ conduct ourselves in a _professional_ manner; and we _will_ do our goddamned jobs!"

All around him, the police officers looked taken back. Gordon wasn't one to express himself in anger, especially around colleagues, but enough was enough. This charade of ineptitude was coming to an end. Twisting around, he returned his sights to Mason. "As of right now, you are under one week unpaid suspension." Immediately, Mason opened his mouth to protest, but the commissioner wasn't having any of it. "Don't you dare say one word," he growled, his tone brooking no argument. "I have a file on my desk five inches thick of wild stories you've come up with to get out of work. If you want to come at me, you better be able to explain every last line in it."

"Umm, Commissioner?

Gordon whipped around, spotting one of the rookie officers. "What?" he demanded.

"Umm, we don't have a lead sergeant," the man said, his voice wobbly from Gordon's sudden temper.

"We do have sergeants other than Mason, Officer," Gordon retorted.

"But Sgt. Cort is working another case and Doakes is on vacation."

That made Gordon pause. The officer was right about that. It seemed he may have misjudged his outburst. However, he couldn't admit that, not in front of men that were just waiting for him to falter. He had to keep up the appearance of competence.

Besides, these men were just asking for what came next.

"Bullock!" he called out

"Yeah, Com'mish?"

"As of right now, you're my acting sergeant pending an official ceremony tomorrow morning." Although he didn't show it, Gordon relished in the glee he felt as he saw several officers' faces drop. "This crime scene is yours. All these men are at your disposal. I want patrols around the block, I want this crime scene secured. Get forensics down here so they can get the bullets that Mason so generously put into the walls. No one gets sleep until everything is under our control."

Bullock smirked around the toothpick that stuck out of his mouth. "You heard the com'mish," he said with amusement. "All of ya schmucks, get to work! You're on my time now, ladies, and I don't like wastin' my time!"

Immediately, the officers began to scramble about. Even Fivel got in on the act, leaving Mason to collapse back on the cooler, looking as if he had the wind knocked out of him. With one last glance about the busied crime scene, a smile forming beneath his bushy moustache, Gordon turned on his heels and began walking back to his car, a cool breeze blowing by. Something good had come out of this act of stupidity.

As he reached his car, using the car remote to unlock the car with a flash of the headlights, he opened the door and gazed out above the roof. It was because of this he saw something. Up on one of the buildings, there was some movement. Squinting his eyes, he made out something flapping up there, something thin and black. It was only there for a moment, before it stopped. Staring at it, Gordon wondered what he saw before he shrugged his shoulders.

It was probably nothing.


	4. Tell Me Everything

When someone wanted to have a private meeting, the docks were always suggested. It was cliched, but there usually was a reason for it. The wooden platforms were usually deserted except for the presence of easily-bribable security guards, who would take an over-extended coffee break. Dim lighting made the shadows created by the nearby storage buildings loom over the area, providing very good cover. It was an ideal place for top secret meetings.

On this night, the purr of a limo engine broke the normally quiet docks. The headlights were off just on the off-chance some schmuck decided to investigate the presence of mysterious lights. By the back driver's side passenger door stood a chauffeur, dressed in a suit and hat. He was standing with his back to the car, staring out over the rest of the deserted docks.

Inside the limo sat two distinguished gentlemen. They were pretty much the antithesis of the other: one was fat and old while the other was thin and youthful. The older man held himself as a veteran of the Gotham underworld while the younger man had an aura of arrogance. Both held burning cigars between their lips, fingers holding the plump tobacco wraps securely. If it weren't for the cracked windows, the whole car would have been filled with smoke.

Neither man said anything, just content to muddle in their thoughts and inhaling burning plant remains. This wasn't their first meeting here and it wouldn't be the last.

A knocking sounded off by the window, causing both men to look towards it. "Right on time," the younger man said as he shifted away from the door. A moment later and the car door swung open, allowing a rather tall, muscular man to slip into the car and sit on the car seat facing the two men.

In contrast to the suits the men wore, this new guy wore simple street clothes from jeans to a tight white shirt and dark jacket. Whereas their hair was greying, his was completely white, the result of bad genetics. He was a serious man as his expression indicated.

"What's the job, Roman," the man grunted, getting right to the point.

"No need for formalities," the older man said as if commenting on the weather while he held his cigar out to a nearby ashtray, tapping his fingers against the tobacco product to knock off some ash. "Care for a cigar?" he offered.

The man's gaze flickered over to the cigar, a hungry look appearing in his eyes. The look immediately disappeared when he looked back up. "No thanks, Mr. Falcone" he answered.

Carmine Falcone smirked as he brought his cigar back to his mouth and inhaled deeply. Casually, he blew out the smoke, much to the amusement of his associate. Although they ran separate families, Salvatore Maroni the Italian was one of the few mob bosses the Roman could stand. They usually respected each other's territory and on occasion lent assistance to the other. Still, Maroni was a snake and Falcone wouldn't hesitate to cut the man's head off if he even suspected a double-cross.

"Then Mr. Lynns, we shall get to business." At this, Maroni pulled out an envelope and handed it to Lynns. "Your last few jobs have been very satisfying," Falcone continued as the man opened the envelope and began studying its contents. "So hopefully this payment is acceptable."

Even if it wasn't, there weren't many men in this town that would dare contradict the Roman. His rule was law, even if the other families disputed it. You either played ball, or you were sent back to the disgusting shithole you crawled out of, usually in pieces. This man, Garfield Lynns, was no exception as he nodded his affirmation.

"You're to hit Moxon again," Maroni spoke up, leaning comfortably in the italian leather seating. "The restaurant was beautifully played, but now we want something bigger. Moxon's day job is at his construction company's headquarters—I trust you know where to find it." At this, the Italian paused to take a hit of his own cigar, spewing out smoke a moment later. "However, we would like it if you were to make it bigger."

That got Lynns' attention, his eyes widening marginally. "You want bigger?" he asked, a quivering tone in his voice. It was clearly not out of fear from what Falcone could determine, but rather excitement. This guy would've been drooling if it weren't for the fact he was sitting in a car worth more than his entire life. The Roman would not stand for spit stains in his car.

"That's right," Maroni confirmed. "The cops already think there's a serial arsonist out there. The media was reporting that by the third burning. Now is the time to up the ante and make everyone know you mean business."

A small smile appeared on Lynns' face. "I can do bigger," he confirmed softly with barely-concealed awe.

"There is one other thing," Falcone spoke up, once more moving to knock ash off his cigar. "This is a big job so I want some insurance. I'll be sending a few of my boys with you to help out."

That put a damper on Lynns' enthusiasm. "I don't need help," he growled lowly.

Falcone raised an eyebrow at that, but let the man's disagreement go. He would just take a little out of the man's usually fee for it. "They _will_ be going with you, understand? You'll be giving the orders and my boys will follow your every word. _That_ is final."

He had to give it to Lynns, he knew when to back down, albeit reluctantly. His mood was clearly disappointed, but he would accept the order. "Understood."

"Good." Falcone relaxed in his seat as he lazily gazed at the white-haired man. "You'll be meeting the boys at 38th and Nixon, got it? They'll be waiting for you."

"Have anything that you want them to bring?" Maroni asked.

Lynns turned his attention to the Italian, studying him. "Yeah, I have a few things. Got a pen?"

Maroni reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a pen, handing it to the man. Taking it, Lynns pulled out the money from the envelope and placed it on the seat next to him. Turning the envelope lengthwise along his leg, he immediately began scribbling down a list. From where the Roman sat, it looked like five or six things, nothing too arduous. When he was done, Lynns handed the envelope and pen back to Maroni, who glanced at the list before handing it to Falcone.

"That could cover everything I'll need for the job," Lynns said. "Your men can be my pack mules and carry it for me."

_Such insolence_, the older man fumed. No one ever made a disrespectful comment towards him, not if they wanted to keep breathing unaided. Mr. Lynns was gonna have that little remark taken out of his hide soon, but for now Falcone would resist his urge to throttle the man. This arson was too important to get consumed by petty retribution—for now. As Maroni smirked towards him, the Roman said civilly, "I'll make sure the boys have everything you need."

As Lynns nodded his head, Maroni reached up and rapped his knuckles against the car window. Instantly, the car door was opened and the white-haired man exited the car, the door slamming shut a moment later.

The smirking Maroni returned his gaze to the Roman. "You handled that well," he said snidely.

"It's not over," Falcone shot back as he roughly put out the smoldering remains of his cigar in the ashtray, eyes expressing what his body did not. "The only thing keeping him in one piece is that he does a damn good job. The moment he loses his value to us is the moment he loses a finger, one for every damn word he said."

* * *

A single turn of a doorknob allowed Gordon into his office and a single slam closed said office off from the world outside it. Without even looking, Gordon reached behind himself and grasped a wiry string, pulling down on it to partially block off the rest of the station with a single sheet of opaque-colored window blinds. He would've done the windows too, but he didn't quite have the energy to do so.

The blinds also blocked off the words on the door's glass window that had the words COMMISSIONER JAMES GORDON painted on it, long scratches cutting into the glass as if someone had tried to scratch out his name. He had still yet to find out who had done that.

As much as he wanted to go home and back into the warmth of his bed, Gordon had decided to start the day early despite the exhaustion he had felt. It wouldn't be the first time a call had him out of his bed and up all hours of the morning. A quick stop for a shower and a cup of coffee at his home was all the time he would allow himself before he headed up here. If he wanted to get some winks later, the ratty-looking couch sitting in the corner would suffice.

Refusing the couch for the time being and instead plopping himself behind his desk in his rotating chair, he leaned back in his seat, eyes closed wearily.

He had hoped to actually get a good night's sleep tonight, but apparently assigning Mason to be in charge of the arson scene had not been the best idea. Sure it was Bullock that had done the assigning, but he had gone along with it and was now paying for it. Still, he couldn't help but think that maybe he had been a little too harsh with Mason. He only mentioned that because word of Mason's unpaid suspension had reached the station before he had pulled up to it. Someone had placed a shooting range target sheet in his reserved parking spot, a noticeable bullet hole right in the head of the target's man-shaped silhouette.

Regardless of Mason's suspended status, it had allowed him to shake up some of the hierarchy in the department and promote Bullock into a position where he could be of better service. Hopefully he would be of better service; Gordon had been wrong before.

With that thought in mind, he wondered how he was going to pull this impromptu promotion off. What were the procedures and protocols for such a thing? Wasn't there some kind of manual around this place that could tell him?

Opening his eyes, the first sight to greet the commissioner was his desk that held who knew how many files on it. Stacks of folders of various cases and administrative duties occupied every available space on his desk, and believe him it was a big desk. He doubted he'd find what he was looking for in all this mess, but he supposed he could start cleaning it up a bit, bring some organization to the chaos as a bit of a warm up. You know, get ready for the rest of the day and everything.

His brow furrowed as he felt a bit of a chill. He turned in his chair and his frown deepened as he spotted a window open, allowing the cold air of early morning in. Curtains billowed before the opening and he wondered when he had opened the damn thing. In fact, he couldn't remember when he had ever opened one of the windows. A quick look around told him that there was no one else in here and it could be a janitor that cleaned up in here had felt it was too stuffy and opened it for fresh air, only to forget to close it when he left.

Gordon took it upon himself to shut it before going about shuffling thick folders about. Just as he had begun to open up some space, the door to his office swung open, slamming against the wall next to it, and causing him to reach for his gun holster in reflex.

"See you still got your reflexes," Bullock commented. "Been here long?"

"Not very," Gordon replied, relaxing into his chair. "Did you find anything?"

"Much as I don't like to admit it, Mason might've been tellin' the truth," Bullock reported. Great, now Gordon felt worse about blowing up at the sergeant. "One of the tech guys found it."

"It?" Gordon asked curiously.

"I got no idea what it is, but the techies said it was some kind of chemical reactant," Bullock said. "Somebody was doin' some kind of test and it ain't us. Checked to see if any of those authorizations had been made or if they'd already been done. Answer's nada."

"Were they able to recognize this 'chemical reactant'?" Gordon asked, somewhat pleased that Bullock had taken some initiatives.

"You know techies. They use long words and mumbo jumbo no normal guy understands," Bullock replied flippantly. "What I did get from the techno-babble is that this reactant thing IDed some kind of accelerant used in the fire. You know, this reaction only happens with this and this chemical, yadda, yadda, yadda; tech geeks are excited 'bout it. Told them to make a report on it an' get it to you ASAP."

"It's been awhile since those technicians were excited about something," Gordon commented dryly. "Good work."

"Just doin' my job," Bullock said.

"So there was someone there and they were doing tests," Gordon mused. "Now who would do such a thing like that?"

"Sounds like someone tryin' to do our jobs," Bullock growled, his voice darkening in disapproval.

"You don't sound happy about that," Gordon noted with some amusement.

"If someone wants to do our jobs, they can get a badge an' do patrol," Bullock stated. "I don't care if it was what Mason said it was, a big, giant bat or whatever."

"Then I suppose it is beholden of us to do _our_ jobs then," Gordon said. "Carry on, Sergeant."

"Yeah, I'll carry on and put whoever it is in a hurt locker for doing our jobs, ain't that right?" Bullock replied before turning around and walking out of the office, directing his last words to the rest of the precinct and shutting the door behind him.

A little rough around the edges, but Gordon was still glad that this man was working with him and not against him. Letting out a sigh, he stared out one of the windows in his office wall, taking in the sight of police officers hustling about. The sight of uniformed men and women sitting at their desks as they filed paperwork while others dragged in arrested suspects was uplifting to the old man. He took note of one group of crying men who looked as if they had the crap beaten out of them. A few months ago the commissioner would have said that was an unusual sight; now it was becoming a fairly common occurrence.

Gordon, however, was not left alone for very long. When his door opened again, this time without the suddenness of the first, a self-important man appeared in a three piece suit, rolex on his wrist, a briefcase dangling from his hand, and an air of arrogance surrounding him.

Getting a good look at the suited man standing in the doorway, Gordon wondered if he shouldn't pull his gun out anyway. There was only one kind of person who would be dressed like that in a place like this and that was a lawyer. You could tell due to how clean they were.

"Commissioner Gordon?" the man demanded harshly.

"That's me," he answered. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"I am a representative from the Union, representing Sergeant Gillian Mason. I believe you have an idea what about," the lawyer stated.

Wow. When he was motivated, Mason sure could move fast. This had to be a record for the fastest time a union lawyer showed up here. "I'm sure I do, but just for the record, why don't you tell me."

The union rep rolled his eyes as he said, "I'm here regarding the unjust suspension of Sgt. Mason and the failure of your office to provide documentation regarding the circumstances that led to the suspension."

Gordon lowered his head slightly, causing his glasses to slip to the end of his nose, his eyes staring over said glasses. "Were you told that your client opened fire at a crime scene that is still under investigation?"

"I am aware of the shooting, but I will have you know that under the collective bargaining agreement signed by the department and the union that officers are allowed to discharge their weapons if they believe they are under immediate threat."

"With no evidence, he claimed that someone else was there. I believe he described this person as a, and I quote, a bat," Gordon said. "Did he mention that to you?"

The lawyer didn't look troubled by the counterargument. "Regardless, he believed his life was in danger and that does qualify for the exception, thus rendering your suspension void." Setting his briefcase down on one of the chairs, he opened it and retrieved a manila folder and held it out to the commissioner. "Here is a file that clearly protects my client and lists damages he intends to seek if his suspension is not revoked. A settlement is requested for emotional traumas caused by the sighting of the danger he faced and facing the suspension, which I might add, delivers severe economic hardship." A sickening smirk crawled on the man's face. "I highly recommend you go over this file _thoroughly._"

The gun was really looking tempting. Gordon didn't like working with lawyers and he _especially_ didn't like working with union lawyers. But most of all, he didn't like having to associate with lawyers who were just as bad if not worse than the criminals the GPD were tasked to arrest and imprison.

However, there was little he could do here. Back at the crime scene, he had mentioned that he had a file on an IA investigation involving Mason, but he had been bluffing. He was not aware of any IA investigation. IA was quite...aloof and tended to keep some distance between itself and the police officers it was supposed to be policing.

He was in a bind and he knew it.

Taking his eyes off the union rep, he glanced about his desk, hoping to buy some time for himself before he said something he would regret to the attorney. It was by pure chance that his eyes caught sight of a stack of folders at the corner of his desk. By all appearances, it looked like the many stacks on his desk, but one thing stuck out to him, specifically the corner of a folder that peeked out from two very thin files. While that wasn't anything to be alarmed about, the folder that caught his attention was much larger than the ones it was sandwiched between. Also, all the other folders were worn with age and use, while this oddly thick one was clean, if not crisper looking. In a word: new.

He pulled it out and opened it, even though it was a blatantly disrespecting Mason's lawyer. What he saw though, seemed to be his saving grace.

"You are aware that your client is currently under IA investigation?" he asked calmly, resuming eye contact with the union rep.

The lawyer gave Gordon an annoyed look. "If there was an investigation, as you claimed at the time of my client's suspension, the union would have been notified of it by now."

"And if it was ongoing?" Gordon asked idly, continuing to sift through the file.

"Then no, no we wouldn't." The lawyer leaned towards the commissioner, nearly snarling at him. "But we both know there is no such investigation."

Gordon said nothing. He closed the file he held, but then slapped it down in front of the lawyer. "Then if I were you, I'd want to take a look at that."

The union rep scowled at Gordon before he reached to the folder, flipping the cover open. At first he looked at it lazily, but that changed in an instant as his eyes sharpened. He was reading intently what the file showed and Gordon couldn't help the satisfaction that welled up within him as the man's face slowly paled. "Wh-where did you get this?" he demanded.

"Like I said, an ongoing IA investigation." _Note to self, deliver this folder to IA so they can begin said investigation._ Gordon rose from his seat and pressed his hands onto his desk, leaning towards the lawyer. "In fact, they were going to inform you about this later in the week. When they do, a copy of this file will be sent to your offices. When you do get it, I recommend that you read through it _thoroughly_."

The lawyer's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, making him look like a goldfish. It took several moments before he composed himself enough to speak. "I believe that is all."

"I believe then that concludes our business," Gordon said, retaining his professional demeanor.

The lawyer nodded his head uncomfortably before picking up his own folder and placing it back in his open briefcase. Shutting it and locking it with quick snaps, he left the office without the air of arrogance he had coming in.

Gordon took that moment to sit back in his chair and contemplate what had just happened. In a complete reversal, he was bossing others around rather than the other way around. It was a foreign feeling to him and one he had the feeling he was gonna have to get used to. That, however, was the least of his worries, specifically concerning that file on Mason. Where had it come from? What was it doing in his office, not to mention being placed in a stack of folders in such a way that he was bound to notice it. Something was going on and he wanted to get to the bottom of it quickly.

A thought occurring him, he glanced back to the window he had shut earlier. Could it be...? No. Too much of a coincidence. But it was a possibility.

To be on the safe side, he was going to increase the security of his windows, but only after a call to the IA to inform them about one of their files winding up in his office.

Then for the third time that morning, someone entered his office. This was the most activity he's seen in this office since he first got the job. He waited in anticipation for the young officer that had entered to speak. From the urgentcy that the officer moved with, Gordon had a feeling that this had nothing to do with paperwork.

"We just got a call for SWAT," the officer informed him, words coming out in a rush. "Something's happening over at Fredrickson and 37th street. Hostages may be involved."

Gordon wanted to swear, but held himself back. Still on the high from the lawyer confrontation, he commanded, "Get all available units, set up a perimeter, get SWAT there, and you, drive me."

The officer seemed shocked at the unexpected leadership, but nodded anyway. There seemed to be times when even adversity was not strong enough to divide co-workers.

"Tell me everything along the way," he added as he followed the officer out of the office, shutting the door behind him.


	5. Getting Better And Better

If there was one thing the Gotham police could do right, it was forming a perimeter. Arriving on the scene, Gordon could feel his shoulders loosen as he saw his men cordoning off the street in front of the Gotham Museum of Art, setting wooden barricades in a large semi-circle. Outside of the barricades was a growing mass of civilians, each one curious as to what was going on.

Gordon had to admit he was also curious.

Walking from his parked car, he crossed the barricade and into the open semicircle. Police cars and SWAT vehicles had been positioned randomly throughout with men scurrying about, performing some sort of duties or assignments. The red and blue lights of the police cars were flashing, bathing the area in the colors. Giving the area a cursory glance, the commissioner quickly spotted the man he was looking for. With a confident stride, he crossed over the area and towards the man he wanted to see.

A loud uprising of voices exploded then, making Gordon harden his facial features. Not only were civilians gathered about, but so was the press and they wanted answers. Already he could hear calls for "What's going on?" and "How do you intend on handling the situation?" and "Are you in over your head, Commissioner?" That last one grated Gordon's nerves, but he held his temper. He couldn't risk an embarrassing outburst in front of these people.

"So Commish, what's the scoop?"

He especially couldn't risk an outburst in front of _her_.

Gordon came to an abrupt halt as he resisted the urge to groan. Looking to his right, he found a lovely, dark-haired woman boring her dark eyes into him, a pad and pen in hand just ready write down anything and everything he said. "What are you doing behind the barricade, Lane?" he demanded with a hint of resignation. He could already feel the headache welling up.

If there was ever a woman born to be a pain in the ass, it was Lois Lane. Correction, Lois Lane of The Gotham Star. How could he _ever _forget that one detail? She had made that clear on many occasions, especially in that purple blouse she was so fond of wearing...which she was wearing at the moment. "Oh you know, standing here is good for my health," Lois quipped with practiced ease. If he didn't dislike her so much, he'd be envious of how easily she did that. "So what do you know?" the reporter asked, her tone sharpening in an instant. "Is it a hostage situation? Art robbery? Art critics? Spare no details."

"About as much as you," Gordon stonewalled, also with practiced ease. He had already learned his lesson in answering this woman's questions. While this answer would only make her hound him harder, it was better than actually giving her anything of substance. Then again, you could say that about all reporters. "Now, if you will, get back behind the police line and let me get to work."

"So you don't know anything?" Lane stated.

"I will in two minutes."

"So you don't know anything," Lane restated, this time not in the form of a question. He could hear that accused pen moving against that pad.

"I know that you're interfering with police business—again. And I'll remind you—again—that there are penalties that come with that charge," Gordon responded with annoyance, more than willing to make those charges. "And don't give me that crock that the people deserve to know. They can learn all about it on the 10 o'clock news—like everybody else."

"You know, I love how you can crush people's dreams in an instant, but enough about yourself, you know the drill. Cough something up that I can use and I'm out of your hair," Lane said.

"You do realize I have a receding hairline, right? Soon enough, I'll be out of hair for you to hang around in."

"And that's my problem, how? If I was reporting on that—I extend my condolences, by the way—I'd be in Lifestyle. Sadly for you, I'm all about the front page."

And didn't he know it. Lane had a sixth sense when it came to finding headline stories. Pretty much any breaking news story that had been written in the last four years had Lane somewhere involved. Probably why The Daily Planet—the Star's parent company—was reassigning her to Metropolis. He was already counting the days until she left for good. "Then here's a headline for you: No Comment." Turning to look at a nearby policeman, Gordon called out, "Officer, please escort Ms. Lane to the barricade. Handcuff her to it if you have to."

"Fine, fine, I'm going. You don't have to sic your hounds at me." Lane held her hands up in mock surrender. She was followed by the officer anyway, though he did keep his eyes on her skirt. Those things were getting shorter and shorter by the day.

"About damn time," Gordon grumbled as he turned away and once more headed to his destination. That would turn out to be a SWAT van with a man in black fatigues and body armor. "Branden," he called out, gaining the man's attention.

Scott Branden was a forty-something year old man who clearly loved running SWAT. One could even say he was born for the job. Clean shaven and gaunty-looking, the man looked as if he lived in his gear, even going to sleep in it if he could. "Commissioner," the man greeted as he looked towards him, his face betraying no emotions.

"What's the situation?" Gordon asked as he came to a stop next to him.

"We've got twelve perps holed up in there," Branden immediately replied, facing a large blueprint of the building that was lying on the hood of the SWAT van. Gordon adjusted his glasses to get a better look at the plans. "They're staying away from the windows, so the snipers we have set up on the buildings here," at this Branden pointed to a building facing the museum," and here," he pointed at another, "have no shot. We're guessing they're holed up somewhere in the middle of the building, in a room without windows." Branden punctuated his words by circling the area with his finger.

"Any demands?"

"None yet, but that's not my department. Right now I have units stationed outside of the West, North, and Main entrances," here he pointed at said entrances on the blueprint, "and they're ready to go. All we need is your go ahead."

"Any hostages?"

"None that we know of. The curator claimed there wasn't anyone left in there, but I wouldn't swear by him."

Gordon raised an eyebrow at that. "And why's that?"

"The guy was more worried about some stupid paintings from the 1800's. If there was another person in there, he'd have no clue, except for maybe some Chagall guy."

Gordon grimaced at that. Some people really had screwed up priorities. "We'll just have to risk it then. Send in your teams, but proceed with caution."

The commissioner could tell Branden was restraining his enthusiasm at the order, but to his credit did a magnificent job of doing so. "Sir!" he replied loudly before pulling out his radio. "Alpha, Delta, and Gamma Teams, you have the greenlight to infiltrate."

* * *

"You heard the man, let's kick some ass!" Benson said as he pulled open the bullet chamber of his assault rifle and let it slide back with a loud click. "Delta Team, move in!"

The six man team hustled to the West entrance, the first two roughly ramming their sides into the brick wall that surrounded the wooden door. The other four men lined up behind them, two on each side. The man on the right looked to his opposite number, nodded, and went for the door handle. Grabbing it, he swung the door open and aimed his rifle into the darkened hallway behind it. Seeing no threat, he backed off so his opposite number could take a look as well.

Seeing the darkened hall empty, the six men flooded into it, the first two remaining at the front as the other four rushed in. Small flashlights attached to their weapons was the only light source they had as well as their only giveaway. They would have to be careful lest they give up their presence.

The footfalls clashed loudly on the linoleum floor as they rotated positions around each other, no attention paid to what must be paintings worth more than their yearly salaries combined. They were focused only on what was ahead as two men would go to a certain marker and stop, making sure they were in no danger. They passed by large doorless doorways, making quick scans of the art displays littering rooms before signaling that it was clear. The men at the back of the line would then rush up past them and do the same at a further marker and signal. This was the back entrance of the museum, so it was expected for there to be guards.

There was a slight disappointment when none were found. Still, there was plenty of building left to secure, so some action would be coming. Reaching a door at the end of the hall, the men lined up much like they had at the exterior entrance. Grabbing the walkie attached to his shoulder, Benson pressed the talk button and said, "West entrance clear. About to enter the primary museum floor."

Releasing the button, Benson and his men waited for the go ahead, which came moments later. "_Roger that,_" the walkie replied, the volume being quite low. It wouldn't do any good if one of the goons here heard them after all.

Giving the go ahead signal, the two frontmen peeked through the small windows in the door, trying to see what was in the next room and if there were any threats. "Looks like the green room," one of them whispered. "No bogeys though."

Benson was sure there was another name for the room, something that concerned the art on display there, but he didn't know it. He wasn't much of an art man. But the walls were green, so that was enough description for the room. "Move in," he ordered.

Again, the man on the right opened the door and checked his zones, allowing the man on the left to do the same. A moment later and the four men behind flooded in, securing the empty room. Their footsteps were further amplified by the acoustics in here, the ceiling wide and high up above.

However, now they were stuck with a choice. There was a doorway to the left and the right. With a gesture of his hands, Benson ordered three of his men to take the right entrance as he and the other two would do the left. Rushing to the entrance, one man positioned himself on the right side as Benson and the other man went to the left. Allowing the right man to clear his zone, Benson waited for him to pull back so he could do his own check. Upon seeing his man pull back, he raised his assault rifle to shoulder height and peeked in. From his angle, he didn't see anyone nor anything in the corner. He did see various displays and what looked like giant vases, but other than that nothing living. Pulling back, the man behind him rushed in with gun at the ready, followed by the man on the right and Benson.

Again, this room was empty as well, but there was only one doorway to the right. However, as they approached it, the man heading for the left side of the door nearly jumped in midair before dashing to the side. The moment Benson and the other man came into position on the right, the left man began gesturing.

_I see one man down, not moving on the floor._ Benson frowned at this. Deciding to follow protocol, he immediately stuck himself out, checking his zone. What he saw was a small hallway, which eliminated the corner search. And just like his man said, there was someone laying on the floor. Although this wasn't procedure, Benson froze as he stared at the man.

From what he could see, the unconscious man wasn't one of his. He was wearing street clothes with a bandanna over his mouth and had a machine gun resting right next to him. Frowning, Benson backed up and gestured for the man behind him to go check it out. Immediately, the man dashed into the hall, approached the unconscious man and kneeled down next to him, checking for vitals.

"He's out cold," the man whispered, which Benson took to mean it was okay to enter. As his other man slipped in, Benson hit his walkie and said "We have a bogey down, I repeat, we have a boogie down."

"_You work fast Delta,_" came the reply.

Benson glanced to his two men before saying, "Bogey was already down."

There was a pause. "_Repeat that?_"

"Bogey was already down. He's been out for..." at this Benson paused as he looked to his man. The man raised a hand and flashed his fingers, all five spread wide. "Minutes at most."

"_Copy that. Proceed._"

However, before he could move, Benson heard the walkie go off. "_We've got two bogeys down, I repeat, two bogeys down._"

A beat later. "_We've got a bogey down, I repeat, we've got a bogey down._"

"_Copy that Alpha and Gamma Teams._"

"_Sir, our bogeys were already down._"

"_Same here, Sir._"

Benson froze at that. Four men were lying around in the museum already unconscious? And without SWAT being the reason for that? Something wasn't right. "Hold position," the man ordered, seeing his men heed him. Nothing was making sense here. What was going on? These punks couldn't be incompetent enough to knock themselves out, right?

His men were getting agitated, also unnerved by what was going on. They were used to breaking down doors, shooting their guns, and taking down bad guys with extreme prejudice. You didn't need to be a rocket scientist or one of the guys in homicide to connect the dots and know that there was something wrong about this.

Uncertainty led to a rash decision, but Benson was not in his element here or out of it enough that he needed further instruction. "What are our orders?" he hissed into his walkie, eyes darting from side to side as if expecting an ambush. The thought that they were being reeled in like suckers was not a pleasant one.

_"Continue to proceed."_

That was a lot of help. With a gesture, he ordered the men to continue with their maneuvers, but not before restraining the perp on the ground, handcuffing him to a nearby railing. Their footsteps were like pitter-patters as they continued and then they found another one. Another check for vitals found that he was alive, but it looked like something had really thrashed this guy.

Another pair of handcuffs was whipped out and they continued further, their hearts pounding within their chests. It was official, all of them knew something was up.

It wasn't until they had reached the center of the museum that Benson found out what that something was. He and his men hadn't encountered any other unconscious thugs, not until they had reached that room. They had heard the sounds from two rooms over. There was a struggle going on in there from the sounds of cries, thuds, and metal clashing against the floor. As much as Benson wanted to rush forward, he and his men maintained their cautious pace until they reached the archway that led into the most expensive room in the place.

Scattered on the floor were unconscious bodies and discarded guns. There was a gold imprinting in the middle of the room—some kind of seal a curator had once told Benson—and right on that seal were three men in street clothes.

And right in the middle of those men was a dark thing that twisted and danced between them. Benson could vaguely make out human-like features, like arms and legs, and those arms and legs were lashing out.

A fist found its way into the face of one of the thugs, snapping his head to a side as another hand snatched the thug by the front of his shirt. There was a heave and the thug was flying straight into another thug with a gun, causing both to stumble and fall back. The dark thing spun around, some sort of cape flapping around him widely. It dropped down as it swung a leg out low, kicking out the feet of the third thug and causing him to fall roughly onto the floor. As the thug sat up, a fist decked him so hard that his head went flying back and into the floor with a slam. The last remaining thug had shoved away his partner and was back on his feet, holding his machine gun over his head and trying to bash in the dark thing's head with the butt of his weapon.

However, due to the dark thing's spinning, its cape flew in between the thing and the thug, causing the thug to hold himself back. That allowed the dark thing to twist himself around to face the thug and lash out with his arms. One of his hands grabbed the thug by one of his arms and pulled him to a side, causing the thug to twist around and leave his rear wide open. The dark thing's other hand grabbed the man by the back of his head, just as one of his feet kicked out the thug's legs and forced him into the ground, slamming his head on the linoleum.

The thug that had been thrown was pushing himself up off the floor, pausing for a second and slowly looking up at the dark figure that towered over him. A foot slammed into the back of his head as the thug let out an aborted scream and it was lights out.

Benson couldn't hold back the wince that covered his face nor the hiss that escaped his lips as he heard the sound of skull meeting a hard surface. However, that hiss caught the thing's attention as it looked at him and the SWAT officer felt his blood freeze at the blank, white eyes that bored into him.

"What is that thing?" Benson heard one of his men ask.

Immediately, the dark thing jerked an arm up, pointing it at the ceiling. A loud bang rang out, which caused Benson and his men to drop into defensive stances. The next thing Benson or his men knew, the dark thing flew into the air, heading towards the roof. Looking up, Benson could see a small dome built into the ceiling, hovering over seal on the floor. In the dome was a ring of small windows, one of which the dark thing flew towards and slipped through.

Staring, Benson slowly raised a hand and pressed the talk button on his walkie. "Sir, there's something on the roof."

* * *

Gordon snatched the walkie from Branden. "Repeat that," he commanded. "What's on the roof?"

Normally, Gordon wouldn't have been so brash, but after hearing all of those odd reports from the SWAT teams, something wasn't feeling right to him. No way would armed goons be unconscious before the police stormed the place.

"_I don't know, Sir,_" the officer reported back. "_It was something black. It looked human, but I can't be sure._"

"Looked human? Not sure?" the commissioner spoke, finger off the walkie button. What the hell was this guy talking about? He must've been hit or something.

"Things aren't going the way you planned?"

Gordon whipped his head around, his sights setting on the person he knew was right next to him. "Damn it, Lane, what did I tell you about the police line?"

"Hey, I have to get my facts when I can, where I can," the woman retorted. "So what's on the roof?"

"The Easter Bunny. Now get back behind the line."

"You know, Commissioner, you can't expect me to do as you say when you won't even give me a straight answer. So until you wisen up and actually tell me something useful, I'm staying right here."

"Get behind the line before I give you to Branden," Gordon growled threateningly. "He's SWAT, so he won't be nearly as nice as me."

"Oh, I knew you cared," Lane jested sarcastically. "But Branden won't touch a hair on my head without losing something valuable to him."

"Is that a threat, Lane?" Gordon glared.

"No, just my self-defense lessons reacting. You can't fault a lady for defending herself, especially in a city like this."

This woman was giving him a headache! He wanted her gone, _now_. "Branden!" he roared as he turned to the SWAT officer. "Escort Ms. Lane out of here. I don't care how you do it, just do it!"

However, Branden didn't seem to hear a word he said. Instead, his attention was directed towards the museum and he seemed astonished by something. "The hell," he muttered, just loud enough for Gordon to hear it.

"What is it?" the commissioner demanded, perplexed.

Raising a hand up, he pointed to the building. "On the roof."

Following the man's direction, Gordon looked to the roof and nearly swallowed his tongue at what he saw. Standing at the roof's edge was what looked like a man. He was completely cloaked in darkness, so there wasn't any defining features anyone could make out. Almost as if it had been staged, a strong wind blew by, ruffling Gordon's trenchcoat.

When the wind reached the dark figure, it was as if it grew bigger. Some kind of cloak or cape rose in the air, fanning out behind the figure like wings. It was as if it were some kind of demon or—as loathed as Gordon was to admit this—a bat.

"Dear God," some nearby person said, who the commissioner wasn't sure, but it summed up the sight fittingly.

Then, as soon as it appeared, the figure turned around and retreated further onto the roof, disappearing from sight. A stunned silence followed before all hell broke loose. "Vale!" Lane roared as she whipped around, looking towards a redhead in the crowd of reporters. "Tell me you got a picture of that!"

The redhead, a woman Gordon noted, shook her head frantically as she fiddled with a camera. "This damn thing didn't work," she called back, clearly frustrated. She was shaking the camera, thinking it would in some way get it to work. "It was working one moment and the next it was kaput!"

Lane groaned before her temper took over her. "You idiot! Why didn't you bring a better camera? Huh? We just missed the front page!"

"Hey, this is a top-of-the-line camera!" Vale protested, glaring at the dark-haired woman. "I had to save up a year's rent for it!"

"You should have saved up two years then!" Lane shot back, matching the camerawoman's scowl. "Did you have to get the cheapest camera you could find? Did some sleazy salesman con you into it? Seriously, I want to know."

Ignoring the reporter, Gordon ordered, "Get those helicopters up there! I want it lit up like noon! Get every available officer up there! Everyone else, form a five block parameter around this building! Nothing gets in or out!"

Branden was snatching up the nearest walkie to issue the orders, telling the teams to head for the roof immediately, leaving behind only what was necessary to restrain the perps. Good thinking there, Gordon admitted to himself. Hopefully they would be able to catch whatever was on that roof.

The minutes ticked by, almost agonizingly so. Gordon had taken to wandering the crime scene by himself. Due to Lane's photographer screwing up her job, the feisty reporter was busy chewing the redhead out. On the occasion that the commissioner walked by, he could hear that the other cameramen were complaining about similar problems. Heck, one guy had even brought a brand new camera and it was about as useful as a paperweight now. That sounded quite odd, if Gordon didn't say so himself.

And then the first report came in.

_"There's nothing up, Sir! I repeat, there is nothing up here."_

Well this night was getting better and better.


	6. Just Kept Watching

Clear blue sky hung overhead without a cloud in sight. Perfect weather for a perfect morning, which could only mean one thing: Bruce Wayne at the golf course for a round of eighteen holes.

Well, that's just the setup, Thomas Elliot—or Tommy to those close to him—thought to himself, weighing two separate golf clubs as he pondered on which to use. Depending on which club he selected, it would alter the course of his shot, either taking him close to the desired goal of a hole-in-one or further away from that goal.

"So Tommy, why is it that you really brought me out here?" Bruce asked, waiting for the red-haired man to get on with his decision. "It's nice that you're treating me to a game, but I know you. You always have an ulterior motive for everything."

"You wound me, Bruce," Tommy said lightly, making his decision and choosing the one held in his left hand. "But I will give you that. There is an ulterior motive this time."

"I'm not giving you her number," Bruce said pointedly.

"Foiled again it seems," Tommy replied with a smirk. "But once again, you're off the mark Bruce. I hope you remember that little meeting I wanted to set up with you at the gala."

"Oh, so that's what this is all about," Bruce remarked. Glancing around, he added, "Not a bad locale for it. I could think of worse places."

"That's why I picked it, Bruce. Now, would you like to hear my pitch or should I let you admire my swing? I wouldn't blame you if you chose the second. Yours could use some work." Setting his ball on the tee, Tommy stood up straight, his feet held apart and back straight. He gripped tightly to his golf club before lowing the club's head to the ground. He did quick calculations in his head as he looked at the ball, then down the course, and then back, taking into account the wind, the amount of force in his swing, the arch of his shot, and a handful of other variables that weren't important to mention.

Lining the head of his club up with the ball, he raised the club up and brought it down. His keen eyes watched the trajectory of his ball as it sailed through the air, landing in about the area he wanted it.

Bruce whistled lowly. "Nice shot. You're gonna have to tell me your secret."

"And miss seeing you struggle to get below par? I think not," Tommy chuckled. "Now, are you ready to hear me out?"

"Not just yet," the dark-haired man said, walking up to the tee. He reached into his pocket and fiddled his hand in there until he pulled out a golf ball. As Tommy took a few steps back, he watched as Wayne set his ball down on the tee and began adjusting his stance. Already he could pick out four things wrong—from the way Bruce had his legs too far apart, the angle of the head of his club, to the man's slightly slumped posture. If he had been a betting man, he would've put a hundred on his friend slicing the ball.

Raising up his club, Bruce swung it down, whacking the ball off the tee. And just as Tommy predicted, the ball sailed to the left and into the trees. With a wide grin on his face, the redhead watched as a grimace covered his friend's face. "Next time, close your legs more," he called out helpfully. "And move your back leg a little further back."

A scowl was on Bruce's face. "Thanks coach. I'll try to remember."

Still amused, Tommy began walking towards the golf cart, sliding his club into his bag. Bruce copied him moments later and climbed into the passenger side of the golf cart. Jumping into the driver's seat, Tommy turned on the engine and began driving towards the closest ball. "I'll let you try and get your ball out of the wilderness first, but while we make our trek, you want to hear what I have to tell you?"

Although grumpy, Bruce replied, "Fire away."

"What do you know about plastic surgery?" Tommy kept his eyes on the green in front of the cart, heading towards the treeline. It was a bit bumpy, which caused both men to be jostled during the ride. Wayne had even reached up to grab the handle bar hanging from cart's roof to keep himself from falling out.

"Other than I've never had it, not too much," Bruce shrugged with disinterest.

"There are ten million plastic surgeries done in this country a year and it's increasing with every following year," Tommy said. "In total, in the last year alone it added up to ten billion dollars. It's an industry that is only growing."

Bruce whistled again. "Sounds like I need to start investing in it. What's your point?"

"My point is that because of so many people getting operations like breast implants, liposuction, rhinoplastys, even hair removals, it's taking away the number of beds doctors have to treat people who actually have serious medical conditions." Tommy didn't have to look at Bruce to know that his childhood friend was regarding him solemnly. Coming up the tree line, he stopped the cart and turned off the engine. "We have doctors, who instead of operating on people to save their lives, they're using their talents to make a quick buck and make someone less ugly. These are not life-threatening surgeries we're talking about. Someone is unsatisfied with the way they look that they choose to cosmetically change themselves through the operating room."

"You sound like you have a strong opinion about it," Bruce commented, sliding out from his seat and heading over to his golf bag.

"Bruce, what if on the night my parents' accident occurred, there were not enough doctors to operate on them? Instead it was just your father in there trying to save two lives, but had not the help necessary to do so? Even with all the help he had, he was unable to save my father. What if I had been orphaned that night?" Tommy had turned around in his seat so that he could continue to watch Bruce, studying his features and body language to gauge how his words were affecting the other.

It was a calculated risk Tommy was taking. It was risky bringing up the tragic fate of Bruce's parents, but Tommy knew how to pull Bruce's strings. Still, it could backfire on him. Bringing up the memory of Thomas and Martha Wayne could hurt his cause as much as it could help. Success and failure could be determined with just the flip of a coin.

"I understand," Bruce said at last, none of his more jovial self in his voice.

"I hoped that you would," Tommy admitted. "You of all people know...but that's not my point. What I'm proposing to you Bruce is a way to open up those beds. To give them to the people who legitimately need them. To free up doctors so they can do what they are trained to do. To save lives."

"You have an idea?" Bruce asked.

"Of course Bruce." Turning to his childhood friend, Tommy tapped the side of his head with his finger. "I'm always six steps ahead."

"So what is is?" Bruce smiled wanly at the man's catch phrase.

"Over the past few months, Elliot Pharmaceuticals has been developing a facial cream that can do in minutes what it would take hours for numerous cosmetic surgeries to do. Restoring youth, removing wrinkles, you name it. If it involves the face, it will be taken care of."

"What about breast implants?" Bruce asked with a bit more urgency.

"We're still working on that one," Tommy jested. "But imagine, fifty percent of all cosmetic surgeries gone, off the market. And that's just with the face. Five billion in revenues added to our coffers, that is, if you agree to get behind it."

There was a short silence before Bruce answered, "Let me get my ball out. Then I'll give you my answer."

"Take your time," Tommy replied. "Take all the time you need. You want to be able to go home tonight, don't try to power your way out that mess over there. Remember, hit it where it lays. No cheating Bruce."

"Yeah, yeah, hold your horses." And the billionaire playboy disappeared into the foliage.

Tommy reclined in his seat, absentmindedly tapping on the cart's steering wheel as he waited for Bruce to try and get out of his current golfing predicament. Last time had taken a while, he recalled. But hopefully he wouldn't let his proposition slip his mind. Elliot Pharmaceuticals was onto a potential gold mine. It was a shame that despite all the capital it had on hand, it wasn't enough to finish the product he was pitching. He needed some extra cash and he knew that Bruce was very liberal with his investments. Otherwise he wouldn't have come to his childhood friend at all.

He was interrupted from his thoughts when a small, white ball flew out of the brush, arcing through the air until landed on the green, bouncing once, twice, and rolling to a stop about a few feet away from the hole. A moment later, Bruce emerged from the wild, a quizative expression on his face.

"How's I do?" he asked.

Tommy gave a whistle. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were sandbagging me. When did you become such a good shot?"

"Learned from the master," Bruce replied, patting him on the shoulder as he slid back into the passenger's seat.

"So there is room in that head of yours," Tommy said, starting the cart back up and heading for the green. "Hopefully, there's plenty of space for your consideration of my proposal."

"A question did occur to me. Are there any side effects I should be aware of? I mean, being able to do who knows what to your own face, it doesn't sound very...healthy."

"Considering my company, that's not a bad question," Tommy chuckled before getting serious. "We're still in the development stage, but we're getting close to testing it out. We want to make sure that it isn't toxic because that's the last thing anybody wants. According to our theory about it, so far there does not seem to be any negative side effects, but we won't know until the testing phase."

Pulling up to the green, the cart was stopped and the two golfers stepped out. Putters were removed from their bags and it was Tommy who stepped up first to his ball.

"So where does Wayne Enterprises come in?" Bruce asked.

"I just thought that you'd like to do another joint venture again," Tommy replied. "Those always turn out profitable, right?" He took his stance, placing the head of his putter close to the ground. He eyed the ball then the hole where a flagged pole stood erect. He did the calculations in his head, determining the amount of force necessary and paying close attention to the geography of this certain hole. If he hit too hard, the ball wouldn't go into the hole and if he didn't hit hard enough, he'd come up short. There wasn't a large margin of error if he wanted an eagle here so he needed to do this right the first time.

His putter struck the ball and he watched in satisfaction as the small ball rolled in. "That's two for me and you're on your third, Bruce. Now's not a good time to mess up your putting. Hopefully you've also gotten better at that."

"Just watch, Tommy," Bruce said, pulling the flagged pole out of the hole so that Tommy could remove his ball. With the pole put back into place, Bruce returned to his ball and Tommy noted how his friend was trying to mimic him. His legs were too spaced out and his posture still needed work. Tommy almost winced at the amount of force Bruce put into his putt and he was not surprised when the ball continued past the hole.

"At least your business sense isn't as bad as your putting," Tommy remarked. "Tell me Bruce, what is your business sense telling you now?"

"It's telling me that this ball is going in that hole no matter what," Bruce stated in annoyance, almost stomping to his ball and lining up his next shot. Which he missed. Another try...and he missed again.

Tommy struggled not to laugh at the look of irritation as Bruce kept missing again and again until finally, his ball entered the hole.

"It seems like I'm six swings ahead of you," Tommy said at his friend's expense. "You do know this is a par five, right?"

"Bogie," Bruce stated distastefully. "One day, Tommy, I will catch up to you."

"Not beat me? At least you acknowledge my superiority," Tommy replied with a smirk.

Bruce grunted, falling silent for a moment, which Tommy recognized as Bruce in "thinking mode." It would be best to remain quiet until Bruce spoke first.

"I'm going to have to think about it first," Bruce said at last. "It sounds like a good idea, but I still have a few reservations about it."

"I hope you don't think too long," Tommy responded, successfully hiding his disappointment. "I can spare you some time, but this thing is moving fast. Will a week do?"

"Yeah, sure," Bruce said. "Mind if we pack up for the day? I already know where our game is going."

"I suppose I could grant you mercy this one time. Not even halfway, Bruce. Almost disappointed in you."

"You don't need to be a detective to know how this will all end. You'll win, most likely by a huge margin."

"Well, if you practice more, you could close that gap." Tommy placed his putter back into his bag, slipping his ball into one of the bag's pockets. "You have to think ahead, plan your moves before you commit to them. It's like...flirting with a woman. There are pitfalls, sand traps, and bodies of water in which your ball can get lost in."

"In comparison, I find women easier than golf."

"I hate to burst your bubble, Bruce, but I'm also good with the women."

"Touche."

The banter continued as the cart headed off back to the country club, their portal back to the rest of the world. It was such a beautiful day, it would be a shame to waste it all, Tommy mused to himself. It wasn't his fault that Bruce was a bit of a spoilsport. He could never take losing real well.

With as expansive as a golf course the club had, it took awhile to return. The easiest way would have been to take the long, twisting, white-colored concrete path that snaked throughout the course. Wanting to make Bruce stew for a bit for the abrupt end to their game, he took that path, making remarks of "That one looks like an easy one," or "I think that hole was more in your level."

You always had to take your pot shots at your friend's expense.

Eventually, the club itself came into sight and not long after that they were pulling up to it. "Don't make that look, Bruce," Tommy chided as he got out of the cart's driver's seat. "What would the ladies say?"

"I suppose we can't have that," Bruce chuckled.

"Yes, you might have to get your hands on that cream to turn your frown upside down." Yes, another hint about his proposition couldn't hurt. Combining it with Bruce's insatiable lust for the fairer sex might be the very thing to get the agreement he sought.

"If you weren't the head of your family's company, I'd swear you'd have been great as a salesman," Bruce joked.

"Bruce, you of all people know that my passion is for the operating room. Just like yours includes your yacht and the Russian ballet. Next time you try something like that, bring me along too. I could use the sun."

When no reply followed, Tommy paused and glanced around, finding Bruce several feet behind him and watching a television monitor. Now what could have caught the playboy's attention like this?

Backing up, Tommy stood next to his friend and saw what looked like a press conference. There was a podium on a stage, a blue backdrop in the background. Standing behind the podium was a rather thin man in a suit—a very cheap suit Elliot added, though not everyone could afford the brands that he and Bruce had a perchance for. Graying hair, a mustache, and large-rimmed glasses completed the man's ensemble of horrible tastes. Really, who let that man out of his house looking like that?

"—and that is all I or the Gotham Police Department has to say on that," the man said as he began looking to one side of the screen, obviously towards the audience that the camera didn't capture. It was then the television program let a small banner appear at the bottom of the screen, labeling the man James Gordon, Police Commissioner, and then disappearing seconds later. So this was the man Mayor Hill had appointed. Tommy had to say he wasn't too impressed.

Some unintelligible words were spoken then, a question by a reporter no doubt. Gordon evidently understood it and answered, "I am not at liberty to answer that at this time." Another glance around the room and Tommy couldn't help but notice how the man would grimace at a certain part of the audience. Someone he didn't want to take a question from?

"You, in the back," Gordon said, tilting his head up to alert the reporter he addressed. Again, mumbled words were thrown at him, but the commissioner dutifully answered the question. "No, there were no hostages at the scene. We are currently investigating the scene as an attempted heist. What the men were trying to steal is currently unknown to us, but we will get to the bottom of it."

Another question was asked, though this time Tommy caught the meaning of it. "How were the men subdued?"

At this, Tommy eyed the television with interest. The headlines of the local papers had mentioned a man in black being involved, even showing himself on top of the museum for the entire world to see. In the redhead's mind, he began making sense of some of the commissioner's reluctance at answering the questions. It was very likely most of the reporters were tailoring their questions to this mystery man.

"The men were found unconscious by the SWAT teams and were promptly arrested," Gordon said.

Tommy knew exactly what was going to happen now. "And they were taken down by the man in black?" the same reporter asked.

The grimace from earlier covered Gordon's face. "No comment."

A woman's voice suddenly sprang up, her voice coming out clearer than the previous questioners. "Some are saying the man looked like a giant bat. Others think it was some demon or monster. What do you think it was on top of the museum?"

From the way Gordon was facing the camera, Elliot suspected something was up. That was the same direction that the commissioner had looked earlier, along with a more severe frown. This must have been the person he had been avoiding. "There wasn't a monster on top of the museum," the man replied instantly. "The police department does not make it a habit to hunt for strange creatures, monsters, or even," at this the commissioner paused, seemingly grasping for more words until he settled for, "giant bats. We are looking for a man—"

"So it was definitely a man up there," the female reporter interjected, jumping on his words. "So would you say there's a vigilante in Gotham?"

An uproar sprang up from the audience as Gordon looked like he made a faux pas and knew it. Tommy wasn't an expert when it came to law enforcement, but he did know some upper-ranked officers in that area that abhorred the v-word. In fact, Gordon looked as if he wanted to ward that word away with a hail mary.

If he had been in the commissioner's shoes, he would have ended the conference right then and there. Instead, Gordon went into damage-control mode, and when it came to the media, that was not a mode you wanted to go into. "The man dressed in...ah...as a bat...is a person-of-interest in the case and the Gotham PD is looking for any information that will lead to him coming in for questioning."

The woman reporter remained silent, though Tommy could only imagine the satisfied smirk on her face. She had expertly cornered the commissioner and made him unwittingly choose the most disastrous answer he could. _Well played, Miss Reporter, well played._

"That seems a bit unnecessary, doesn't it?" the female reporter asked. "Calling him the 'man dressed as a bat'?" She sounded as if she would break out laughing at any moment. "That's just too many words. Surely you boys at the GCPD have come up with a better name."

There was a familiarity between these two people, Elliot noted. It wasn't very often that a reporter talked with a ranked official as if they were at a morning coffee. He needed to figure out who this woman was. She was quite the personality.

"So we have a vigilante running around the city," Tommy remarked out loud. "This just keeps getting better and better, right Bruce?" When he only received silence, the redhead frowned as he reiterated, "Bruce?" Turning his head, he was surprised to find his friend had vanished from his side, stumping the surgeon.

"Where did he go?"

* * *

Gordon had tried to make good his escape after the conference. He did not need anybody speaking with him after that fiasco. He had screwed up majorly and he knew everyone knew he had. Fortunately, with the exception of the mayor, he was the highest authority in the police department so there was no one in the immediate vicinity to yell at him.

"Fancy meeting you here."

Damn it, he was caught.

Slowing looking in the direction of the voice he heard, he soon found that he would have preferred the mayor in place of who had spoken.

"Lane, I'm not in the mood," he growled lowly, holding a hand up to forestall further conversation with her.

Lane didn't get the hint or just flat out ignored it. "Lighten up, Gordon, it wasn't personal. It is _my_ responsibility to ask questions and get answers out of you tight-lipped closet-cases. If you just told the truth to start with, you wouldn't get burned every time you get asked an honest question."

"You know why we don't give too much information. If we gave you everything, it would compromise the investigation as well as give any two-time crook a blueprint on how to commit the perfect crime. You journalists and reporters need to learn when to shut your mouths." He was in no more for pleasantries.

"That's a load of bull and you know it," Lane snapped back. "Every time you want to keep information secret, you claim it's in the interest of 'national security' or it's 'in the name of public safety.' Those are just phrases you people use to hide what the public should and have a right to know."

"Quit your grandstanding," Gordon retorted just as angrily as the reporter. "And how many yahoos out there do you think are going to be designing bat costumes and taking the law into their own hands now? It _is _an issue of public safety, damn it, whether you agree or not and you just gave who knows how many unstable people out there a the perfect excuse to break the law. People can be inspired to do the wrong thing, Lane."

"Oh, so you're gonna pin the blame on me if some crackpot decides that he wants to go stand on roof tops—"

"Who else was in there asking about vigilantes and men dressing up as bats?" Gordon interrupted angrily, his voice raising quite loudly though at the moment he didn't care. "Please, tell me who else was in there doing what you did and I'll gladly blame them too."

"In case you had the wrong prescription eyeglasses on last night, there already is some yahoo out there dressing up and playing vigilante. If you and your department actually did their jobs and not take money from all the mobsters like little crackwhores, that guy wouldn't have gone outside after playing dress-up. I may have asked the question, but your department created the environment for this guy to do what he did."

"I was trying to keep it at one, Lane."

"Well then, you better get on that, _Commissioner,_" Lane jeered. Raising up her notepad and pen, she then snarked, "So should I call this guy the 'guy dressed as a bat'? Seems a bit long for a name and there's only so many letters I have for a headline."

Gordon didn't have anything to say to that because what could he say? Sometimes it was better to not say anything at all and let the silence speak for you. Rude as it may be, he still turned his back on her and walked off without another word.

That still didn't stop Ms. Lane from shouting after him. "Tell me what you think of this: 'Man-Bat watches Gotham.' Or how about 'Gotham's New Pest Problem?' Oh wait, how about just one big word: 'Batman.'" A silence followed that proposed headline before Lane commented, "Hey, that one doesn't sound that bad at all."

Gordon was armed at the moment and he had never felt a greater desire to pull his gun out and "accidentally" discharge it in Lois Lane's general direction.

* * *

The back of the truck shook clumsily, causing the barrels to rattle against each other. The whining of the siren of the truck filled everyone's ears as it backed up, alerting everyone that they were at their destination. It was dark, so no one could see a foot in front of their faces, which made them eager to get out. Well, everyone except for Lynns.

Finally, the truck jerked to a stop, followed by the sound of car doors slamming. A moment later and the back of the truck began rolling up, flooding the space with light. Yet, no one rushed for the exit until the two men finished rolling up the back door. Once that was done, they each moved to either side of the doorway and fiddled with something out of view. Then with a jerk, they began pulling out a large, flat, metal plate until they came to a sudden stop. Kneeling down, they placed the edge of the plate on the dirty alley ground, creating a ramp to the back of the truck.

That was when the flurry of activity began. A few of the dark-clad men leapt out of the truck and disappeared into the alleyway. Most of the others were surrounding the barrels and roughly placing them on handcarts. As for Lynns, he casually walked through the crowd until he reached the ramp and made his way down it. He continued to walk away from the truck, casually glancing about the alley. It was a filthy place, the ground covered in trash and the building walls sprayed with graffiti—a streetrat's dream home. He didn't stop walking until he heard something crackle beneath his feet.

Coming to a stop, Lynns looked down and found himself staring at a dirty copy of _The Gotham Star_. It was the front page from this morning, proudly proclaiming the headline: **BAT-MAN: Marvel or Menace?** The white-haired man sneered at the paper before looking up. Just a bunch of nonsense, this bat-business. While he had heard of that hapless heist—after all, there wasn't a criminal that didn't know about the various illegal activities in this city—to suggest some guy was running around in some bat costume was ludicrous. There was a name for people like that and it was crazy and all the crazy people usually ended up in the Gothic penitentiary, Arkham.

Gazing to his right, Lynns caught sight of one of Falcone's men kneeling in front of a door. He was busying himself with picking the lock and taking his sweet time doing it. Looking back to the truck, he saw the first load of barrels coming down the ramp, the other guys wheeling it towards the door.

That was when someone stood next to the white-haired man. Turning his attention to his sudden companion, Lynns saw a thin man with a pencil-thin mustache. His features were sharp and weasel-like, his eyes always appearing to be analyzing something. Unlike everyone else here, he was dressed in a pinstriped suit with a matching fedora. The guy looked right out of one of those roaring '20's gangster movies. "Everything's going to plan," the man grunted.

Lynns resisted the urge to sneer. "I can see that, Vitti," he replied sarcastically. Johnny Vitti was one of Falcone's demands for this job, the one about bringing a bunch of his men. Unlike the other guys that took orders, Vitti acted more like he was a hotshot, some lieutenant in the mob family; considering he was the nephew of Falcone, that sort of made sense. Still, Lynns couldn't stand him.

Vitti just remained silent looking as the other guys worked. A loud shrill got both men's attention, causing them to look to the door as the lock-picker there opened it. Those hinges needed some oil badly. Immediately, Lynns began walking to the door, Vitti trailing him as they entered the building.

They were greeted by more darkness inside of the building. Keeping his hands in his pockets, the man nicknamed the "Firefly" waited until a couple men rushed in and turned on their flashlights. From what he could see, this was a storage room for the various construction equipment and materials Moxon had for his business. Ignoring it, Lynns scanned the room as more guys entered the building, wheeling in the barrels. Off to his left, the white-haired man spied a set of wooden stairs leading up to a wooden section in the wall. That was what he had been looking for. Looking over his shoulder, he gave a low whistle, alerting the men walking by. "Three barrels, up there," he barked out before walking to the steps, Vitti once more tailing him. Lynns ignored him in favor of hearing the squeals of the handcart wheels as they began following him.

Reaching the stairs, Lynns mounted them two at a time until he reached the door. Standing to a side, he saw Vitti right behind him, staring at him. Behind Vitti the white-haired man recognized the lock-picker. At first the man looked hesitant as he came to a stop behind Falcone's nephew, but he eventually worked up the nerve to push by the guy and get to the door at the top of the steps. "Watch it," Vitti growled menacingly.

Lynns rolled his eyes at the man's attitude before looking to the lock-picker, finding the man finishing off the lock and opening the door. This one was silent, thank God, and the lock-picker stepped into the room, pulling out a flashlight and turning it on. Lynns was right behind him, his eyes lighting up as he found himself in Moxon's office. The room was richly furnished with a large oak desk on the other side of the room, three expensive-looking chairs that he couldn't afford in front of it and resting on top of a Persian rug. Next to the door was a bar, various bottles of alcohol sitting behind it. Along one of the walls was a long set of filing cabinets, most likely filled with important papers and whatnot. To the Firefly, they were only one thing: kindling.

Stepping aside, Lynns turned to look and saw Vitti coming to a stop right in front of the door. Scowling, the white-haired man grabbed the idiot by his shoulder and shoved him forward causing him to stumbled. "What the hell, man!" Vitti shouted as he whipped around to glare at Lynns.

"You were standing in the way," Lynns shot back irritated. "Watch your surroundings; there are more important things going on than people having to wait on your dumb ass to get out of their way."

Vitti continued to glare at him even as the other men came into the room. They were walking backwards, pulling up their handcarts one step at a time. With each step they climbed, a loud _thunk_ was made until each man reached the top. Once there, they were able to roll freely about the office.

"One barrel in the far corner," Lynns immediately directed, pointing to the far right corner of the room. "Another in the opposite corner." At this he pointed towards the near right corner, on the far side of the bar. "Last one in the middle of this wall, right there." Here he indicated the left wall, right below a painting of some kind. The moving light of the flashlights from the lock-picker and two men that followed the barrel guys didn't really show much.

"Vitti," the white-haired man then said, looking to the annoying rat, "Make yourself useful and open all the filing cabinets. I want the fire to get in them and burn everything."

Vitti continued to scowl at him for a moment before moving towards the metal cabinets, grumbling with every step he took. If Lynns could get away with it, he'd leave the guy here when all the fireworks went off. That would've made him very happy, but probably piss off the Roman enough to finally take a shot at him.

There was a crash, causing the Firefly to wince and glare at the perpetrators who uttered an "Oops" as if it wasn't a big deal. Maybe it was to him, but to the white-haired man, it was a misstep that threatened to ruin his design.

"You do realize that the stuff in that drum is worth more than your life," Lynns growled.

"It's only oil," the man shot back indignantly.

Feeling a bit vindictive, Lynns retorted, "Actually that's nitroglycerin. If you don't respect it, it will blow all of us up along with the rest of the block."

"Really?" the man asked, eyes wide and looking at the drum with more fear.

The lock-picker sidled up next to him. "That's not really what you said it is, right?"

"Who cares?" Lynns shrugged, fiddling with a pair of goggles around his neck. "But that's not important. What is important is that we don't make a lot of noise. The last thing any of us want is some rent-a-cop walking in on us because we were too loud. Now go make sure each barrel is open. We can't start a fire without fuel."

The lock-picker nodded his head before hurrying to the other side of the room, the light from his flashlight waving against a large window next to the filing cabinets. Ignoring the other men, Lynns walked up to the barrel next to the left wall and opened it as the metal let out a loud groan. Grabbing it by the side, he pushed it over and watched as the viscous liquid spilled out and spread over the floor. Looking to the filing cabinets, he saw Vitti was just about done opening each and every drawer in them. At last the man made himself useful.

A couple more shrill groans filled the room as the other two barrels were opened. As the smell of fossil fuel began wafting to his nose, the Firefly could feel his excitement burning within him. The time was nigh for his latest work of art and he could hardly wait to see it.

"Clear out!" one of the men in there called out. Lynns supposed someone had to do it, lord knew he wouldn't have bothered. Sometimes a burnt corpse helped add some spice to a good fire.

As the men began heading to the door, trampling through the oil-soaked floor, the lock-picker was walking by the window when the glass shattered loudly, sending shards everywhere. Something dark crashed through the opening and slammed into the man, knocking him to the floor where his head bashed against the hard surface of the floor.

Instinctively, Lynns pulled back, more than startled at this unexpected turn in events. Then he got a good look at what was there, along with everyone else who hadn't left.

_Jesus Christ..._

"Get that thing!" Vitti roared and the entire room exploded into chaos. A couple men charged the black thing, looking to beat it down. These were the first to go down as dark figure lunged at them, ramming a fist into the first man's face, the man crumpling instantly to the floor. Using the momentum from its punch, it spun around, a black cloak swirling around it and causing the second man to freeze in his footsteps. That proved fatal as the back of a boot slammed into the side of his head, knocking him to the floor.

Lynns dove for the bar, taking cover behind it. This...this _thing_...this was that Bat-thing the reporters were going bonkers about! It had to be! He should have been terrified. He should have been fleeing for his life. But his heart was hammering in his chest in the way that he liked it. He couldn't explain why.

Peeking over the bar, he watched the Bat-thing slammed its palm into the chin of one of the mobsters, the man practically thrown off his feet from the blow. One of the mobsters tried to come at the Bat-thing from behind, but an elbow was thrust back and into the man's stomach. Like a fulcrum, the Bat-thing's lower arm swung upwards and nailed the man in the face with the back of its hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lynns caught sight of two men pulling out their handguns and aiming it at the bat. Apparently the Bat-thing saw this and retreated its arms into its dark shroud. Before either of the guns went off, however, the bat lashed a hand out, sending something whirling through the air. The white-haired man couldn't see it, but he could hear it, and he definitely heard the armed men let out gasps of pain, coupled with a sharp metal _shink_. Staring, Lynns saw both men grasping their hands, their guns lying on the floor in front of them. That was when a low _thunk_ sounded off on the bar in front of the Firefly, immediately causing him to look towards it. Sticking out of the wooden surface of the bar mere inches from his face was a piece of metal that he couldn't only best describe as a bat. Never in all his years had he seen something like it.

Commotion returned his attention back to the bat as he took down the two men he had disarmed. It was then that Lynns realized that everyone other than himself was either knocked out or crying in pain on the floor.

_Jesus Christ..._

That was when thunderous footsteps echoed outside of the room and before the white-haired man knew it, a few more men came rushing into the room, metal bars in their hands. "What the hell is goin' on here?" one of them exclaimed before staring right at the dark, hulking figure in the middle of the carnage.

"Get 'em!" another man shouted and they all charged at the bat. At this, Lynns looked further down the bar and spotted two bottles of alcohol. Grabbing them, he spun around and sat down on the floor, pressing his back against a cabinet door in the bar. Next to him was shelving and there he spied several cleaning rags. Grabbing two, he tossed them to his feet and began working on opening one of the bottles.

With a loud pop, the cork in the bottle shot out, fizzy bubbles rushing out the bottle's mouth. Grabbing one of the rags, he held it in front of him and allowed the eager bubbles to spill out onto it. Satisfied, he set the bottle on the floor and began pushing the rag into the bottle until it was about half way in.

Once that was done, he began reaching for the second bottle when an annoyance appeared right next to him. "Lynns, you coward!" Vitti screamed into his ear as he kneeled right next to the arsonist, "What the hell are you doing? That maniac over there is knocking out our guys!"

If only that Bat-Man guy had knocked out Vitti, if only. But no, you had to do everything yourself, nowadays. "I'm working on getting us out of here," he calmly stated as he repeated his process with the second bottle.

That was when Vitti noticed the bottles. "Cocktails? That's your idea of an exit strategy?"

"I was hired to do a job and that's what I'm gonna do," the Firefly retorted. "And this way I get two birds with one burning stone."

Realization dawned on the weasel's face. "But...but what about the boys? They're just lying there!"

Lynns shrugged his shoulders. "They should've learned to fight better." Ignoring the sputters that came from Vitti at his answer, the white-haired man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, metal lighter. There were two yellow F's on one side of it, one F towards the top left corner whereas the second one was towards the right bottom corner, and both letters were interlinked right in the middle. It was what he considered his lucky lighter considering the number of successful jobs he'd gone through with it.

Flipping open the lid, he immediately struck the flint wheel with practiced ease, causing an entrancing flame to spring to life. Moving the lighter to the bottles, he lit each rag, the flame greedily consuming the alcohol-soaked cloths. Flipping the lid back on and extinguishing the lighter flame, the Firefly put his lighter back in his pocket and picked up a Molotov Cocktail with either hand.

Standing up, Lynns stared at the Bat-thing from over the bar. The dark figure was currently tossing one of Falcone's men through the air and into the wall, the man landing right on top of the oil barrel and causing it to groan from the sudden impact. As if sensing his gaze, the Bat-thing regarded him warily, one of its hands slowly inching towards its waist.

A smirk appeared on Lynns' face, growing bigger as he drew back one of the cocktails and threw it at the bat. Well, to be more precise, he threw it right at the Bat-thing's feet, the bottle shattering mere inches from its toes. Instantly, the room was engulfed by flames. The mix of alcohol and oil proved quite flammable and consumed the dark-clad man instantly.

Lynns eyes lit up in excitement as he watched the flames spread, the very heat caressing his body and serving to excite him even more. Yes, _yes_; his heart pounded wildly in his chest as desire overcame him. It was an ecstasy that overwhelmed him and flowed through his veins furiously, satisfying his every need and desire in an instant. A dazzling dance of which there could be no comparison.

"Are you insane?!" Vitti suddenly shouted in the white-haired man's ear, ruining the moment. "You'll kill us all!"

Naturally there had to be a party pooper.

Lynns shrugged him off before walking towards the office door, the annoying man hot on his heals. Both men descended the staircase, the other men in the building looking at them befuddled. "Run! Run for your lives!" Vitti shouted once he reached the ground floor, shoving his way by the white-haired man and racing towards the door. The men looked at each other before jogging their way out, always keeping an eye towards the office.

Lynns merely strolled towards the exit, not in the least hot under the cover at the growing inferno behind him as he handed his other Molotov to his throwing hand. Glancing behind him and spying where the other barrels were, he threw the bottle at them and watched in satisfaction and elation as the cocktail exploded with flames all over the oil drums.

Walking once more, the arsonist casually made his way through the alley, noting that the truck was long gone. He continued walking until he reached the road, crossing the street there, and making his way to the nearest corner. Once he reached the corner, he couldn't resist turning around to look back at Moxon's building.

As if on cue, a thunderous boom roared out into the night air as flames erupted out of the windows of the building. Dark plumes of smoke billowed up into the sky, highlighted by the orange glow of the conflagration.

And Lynns just kept watching.


	7. Take Him Out

Julie stared at her cell phone. It was lying on the table in front of her, oblivious to her stare. They were done with today's scenes and the actress was hoping she would find a message on the device only to be disappointed when her voicemail was empty.

She hadn't seen or heard anything from Bruce Wayne since he had ditched her at the gala for some wacky invention. She had no idea what it was, but it had gotten the man's attention immediately and he had forgotten all about her. There had been stories of Bruce leaving dates high and dry, but the dark-haired woman hadn't thought it would happen to her, not after the way the gorgeous man had practically attacked her when they first met.

Boy had she been wrong about that.

Picking up her phone, she dialed in the number for Wayne Manor. She had tried his office line a few times already, each time reaching the secretary who was quickly becoming annoyed with her. Her last call had the secretary telling her in no uncertain terms to quit calling. So an internet search later had the actress with the number for the most fabled house in the city. Unfortunately, she hadn't gathered the courage to call yet.

Her thumb hovering over the call button, Julie wondered if she really should go through with this or just cut her losses. If this was just a sign of things to come, it would be best to stop chasing the man. On the other hand, he probably was busy with his business, which must consume a lot of time. A multi-billion dollar corporation wasn't self-sustaining after all.

Before she knew it, her thumb pressed the call button and a faint buzzing sound came from the earpiece. Instantly, Julie had the phone pressed against her ear, holding her breath as she waited through the second ring, then the third.

Just as the third ring came to an end, a click was made, followed by a distinctively British voice greeting, "You have reached Wayne Manor, how may I help you?"

Julie let out the breath she had been holding. She had been half-expecting to reach an answering machine with the way all her attempts had gone. How nice it was to be talking to an actual person—she was purposefully leaving out that mean secretary. No way could she be considered human. "Um, this is Julie," she said nervously. "Julie Madison. I'm...calling for Bruce?"

"Ah, Master Wayne is currently indisposed of at the moment. May I take a message?"

Okay, Julie considered herself a patient woman, but this was too much. "What do you mean 'indisposed of'?" she demanded heatedly. Enough was enough; she was not going to be brushed off without a proper excuse, something, anything better than "I can't come to the phone now."

The British man didn't seem taken back at all by her tone. Instead, he replied, "Master Wayne had an accident with the fireplace last night. He is currently resting from the burns he received."

"Oh! I'm sorry," the actress immediately apologized. "I didn't know. Could you please let Bruce know that I hope he feels better soon?"

"Absolutely, Madam. Is there anything else you would like to say?"

"Umm, no, not really." Upon hearing such horrible news, Julie really had no idea what to say. The anger-powered winds that had been holding up her sails had vanished, leaving her at a loss. "Umm, could you let Bruce know that I'd like to speak to him again? As soon as he can."

"Yes, Madam, I will pass the message on."

"Thank you...uhh, Sir. Goodbye." Immediately, Julie hung up the phone, sucking in air before letting out in a rush. She felt drained, even though she hadn't done anything to warrant it. Of all the things she expected to hear, Bruce having an accident wasn't one of them. She really hoped he would get better, the sooner the better.

* * *

It had been Gordon's expectation that when he entered the spacious conference room, it would be filled to brim with eager officers. He should have known better not to expect that, but after everything that had occurred since the first "Bat-Man" sighting, his expectations had risen.

Apparently, the sighting wasn't enough to convince the officers of his department to go into high gear and try to do their jobs. He wanted to sigh, but he didn't as he made his way towards the large dry-erase board on the far end of the room.

From a glance, he noted that the few officers that had shown up on time were, again, the greenhorns of the department. Sometimes he longed for those days again, when he was only a simple rookie with high hopes and ideals. In his opinion, it was much better than being the commissioner.

There wasn't a friendly face that he could take heart in—and by friendly face, he meant Bullock. Of course, when it came to what the detective considered to be group show-and-tell sessions, he was typically one of the last ones to show up. Well, it seemed like he would have to wait for the other officers and detectives to show up first before he got this morning briefing started. To try and take his mind off of the current situation, he studied what was on the dry-erase board, noting the various cases on it and which ones needed to be taken off or moved up in importance.

About fifteen, twenty minutes after his arrival, the tardy officers and detectives finally arrived and boisterously at that. He didn't show it, but he was really peeved. He wanted nothing more than to chew them out or at least try and shame them...but he couldn't bring himself to do that. It was one thing to chew out one lazy detective over incompetence, it was another when it was a full room of veterans that would have banned together and fight back.

As chair legs scruffed against the tiled floor and a particular uproar of laughter filled the room, Gordon waited for some of the noise to die down before trying to gain their attention.

"Officers?" he called out, but his voice was drowned out at another boom of laughter as a somewhat uncouth joke was told. "Officers?" he tried again, but he had the feeling that he was being ignored. His frustration was starting to build, but he couldn't push himself to release any of it.

Fortunately, help arrived, more tardy than the rest. "Okay folks, I'm here. Traffic was bad and like the rest of you, I want outta here as soon as possible. So, where are we?" Bullock announced as he stomped his way into the conference room.

"We were just about to start," Gordon said in answer to the detective's query. "Take a seat, Sergeant."

"Hear that boys? It's sergeant now."

Gordon didn't want to waste anymore time, but he didn't speak to tell the other man to shut up and sit down. Instead he allowed Bullock to preen a bit before getting to business.

"Gentlemen, I want to know where we stand," Gordon stated. Best to keep this simple and quick. "Bullock, anything new about the downtown fire?"

"Yeah, Commish'," the sergeant replied, pulling out his notepad and flipping through several pages. "There were bodies in this one, eight or nine. They were found in the office where the fire guys think the fire was started. Thing is these guys didn't work there. They broke in."

"So they were trying to rob the place?" Gordon summarized.

"Not exactly. See, the building is own by Moxon. That's his headquarters, ya see, and ya gotta have balls to try to rob Moxon. The lab rats are trying to find out who these guys are right now. Something 'bout DNA and dental records."

"Do you have theories about what happened?" Gordon asked.

"Not at the moment, but once we find out who these guys are we'll know what's going on," Bullock answered.

Not much for him to work with. Guess he needed to feel out the rest of his department. "Does anybody have any thoughts they'd like to share?" he asked the rest of the room. This time he was not surprised by the silence that greeted him.

"Were there signs of forced entry?"

Gordon blinked at that, caught somewhat off guard. The fact that someone had spoken up when he had expected that no one would was...well, surprising. But this wasn't what he had expected, especially since it had been a woman who had voiced that question.

"Forgive me, but you are?" Gordon had to asked, not recognizing her off the bat.

"Lieutenant Sarah Essen, recently transferred," the woman introduced herself. Gordon noted the pale blond hair that flowed down and behind her shoulders, sharp eyes dispassionate as she returned him look for look.

Looking away from Essen, though he thought that name was familiar, he addressed Bullock, "Well? Will you answer the l...questions?" Almost slipped up there and called Essen "lady." Due to the fact that she was dressed professionally and the way she was conveying a no-nonsense expression, Gordon figured that it wouldn't be good for himself if he did that.

"It was hard to tell 'cause the building burned to the ground, but I'll get the lab geeks to go over it again," Bullock replied nonchalantly. "Might find something."

"You do that," Gordon agreed, glancing at Essen again. This time it was a bit more out of worry because the rest of the room full of decidedly _male_ law enforcers was getting a real good look at her. Already there were some murmurings. Did he have to mention that women in the Gotham City Police Department had high turnover rates? And had she mentioned that she had _transferred_ here? That would imply that she was here willingly. It also hinted at a possible mental illness, not something the commissioner was happy to deal with. "Anything else, Lieutenant?"

"Not at the moment, Commissioner," Essen answered.

"Very well," Gordon said, clearing his throat. "That brings us to the case I'm sure you all are here for: this Bat-Man situation. Where are we on that?"

Snickers filled the room once he had said that, causing his face to heat up. It was no secret the men loved how Lane had bullied him at the press conference. He was still hearing the catcalls from the department over it.

"Hey, HEY!" Bullock called out over the ruckus. "Sure, the Com'ish stunk at that conference, but it don't change the fact that this bat-fella not only made us look bad, but did our jobs better! An' here you all are, laughing 'bout it. I don't know 'bout yous guys, but that pisses me the hell off!"

Well, it seemed like not everyone was pleased about this Bat-Man character. However, it seemed as if Bullock's words had an effect over the rest of the men. They had quieted down a bit, a few of them starting to express their anger over this.

Then there were those who weren't in the least bit affected.

"Hey, at least we're still getting paid," an officer chuckled.

"You think this is _funny_?" Bullock snarled. "Are ya gonna be laughin' when this guy starts goin' after some of the mob bosses in this town?"

"He'd have to be a lunatic to do that!" the officer exclaimed in response.

"What would ya call a man dressed like a bat?" Bullock retorted. "'Sides, didn't he show up at one of those arsons? What if he's the one setting them? Is it a coincidence that this last one was at Moxon's? A mob boss if I have to remind you?"

"I do believe that's a far stretch," Essen spoke up. "There's no evidence to support that."

"The Com'ish wanted my theories so here's my theory," Bullock replied. "We got a vigilante nutcase goin' after all mob big wigs."

"What about the first arson? Do you know for certain if that belonged to the mob?" Essen asked. "And what about other bat sightings? Surely this guy has been active long before the museum."

"You think this whackjob's been runnin' around before that?" Bullock replied skeptically.

"You've got to be very confident if you're going to drop in on a bunch of robbers with automatic rifles," Essen pointed out. "And what if he's not crazy? He had to know if he was capable of dropping in and taking out each and every robber without them firing a shot off in self-defence. That indicates experience."

"I didn't have experience when I popped Tammy O'Toole's cherry in the eighth grade, but that didn't stop me from doin' it," the sergeant crudely rebutted. "There's plenty of things a man can do without havin' experience."

It was almost fascinating to see Bullock and Essen go at it. However, this was Gordon's briefing and not theirs. At least, in theory it was. Okay, who had he put in charge of this Bat-Man case?

As the back and forth between Bullock and Essen died down, Gordon took his chance. "Pauling? I put you in charge of this case. Have you made any headway?"

Pauling deadpanned, "What do you think?"

"He's got zip!" Bullock exclaimed. "Hey Com'ish, put me in charge. I'll have this guy tied up on your desk at the end of the week!"

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Sergeant," Gordon said. "But gentlemen, need I remind everyone that vigilantism is against the law? We bring him in. The question is how?"

"I suggest finding out everything we can about this Bat-Man. Maybe there's a pattern," Essen suggested.

"It ain't all that hard. Next time he shows his face, we put him in a hurt locker," Bullock retorted snidely.

Not the least bit put off, Essen asked, "You know where he's going to show up next?"

"Eh..." My, another surprise? And in such a short amount of time? Wasn't often you could catch Bullock flat-footed like that. He always had some quip or comment he could throw right back. Gordon was slightly fascinated by the sight.

"The only thing we can really do is keep an eye for him at every crime scene we have," Essen continued, talking as if she hadn't been interrupted. "That's impractical. We can't be trying to arrest or protect people if we're constantly looking over our shoulders. We need to figure out what crimes this Bat-Man is going to, when he's doing so, and where he'll do it again. This guy could be working in any place in the city for all we know."

"Good point," Gordon agreed before calling out, "Pauling, get to work on that."

"You're still givin' it to Pauling?" Bullock exclaimed in astonishment.

"I still need you on the arson cases," Gordon told him. "You believe this Bat-Man is involved so maybe you should go over them and see if you can find that connection. For the rest of you, I do not think I have to say this, but your orders are to arrest this vigilante on sight, preferably alive. No one takes the law into their own hands and I'll be damned if someone does it in this city. We'd never hear the end of it from those Metropolis guys."

There was a low grumbling from the men. The old rivalry between the cities had been awakened. If this is what it took to get these men to actually work for a change, then Gordon would use it and not lose a wink of sleep over it.

* * *

No sooner had Gordon returned to his office that he heard someone knocking on the door. An oddity since more often than not, people opened it without knocking. A look towards the door soon revealed the culprit and Gordon could say, at least this time, he wasn't surprised.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" he asked as he made himself at home behind his desk.

Essen entered the room, though didn't venture in to far. She stood right in front of the open door and stated, "I'd like to speak with you about the Bat-Man case, Sir."

Direct, to the point, and polite. Rare to find all three in one person in a place like this. "Have a seat," he offered, gesturing to one of the chairs.

Nodding, she closed the door behind herself and accepted his offer.

"So what about the Bat-Man case?" Gordon asked.

"I would like to request permission to be placed in charge of it," Essen said, showing more of that directness of hers. She didn't mince words, did she?

"Are you sure about that?" Gordon asked. "With all the media hype, there is going to be a lot of pressure."

"I didn't transfer to this department because I didn't want pressure, Commissioner," Essen replied.

"Since you mentioned it, I wanted to ask about that. Why did you want to join the GCPD?" Gordon inquired curiously. "From what I've seen so far, you're a very intelligent woman who could go very far if she wanted to. Could probably do so in a more...safer city."

Instead of answering the question, Essen countered with, "Why did you join the GCPD?".

Gordon blinked at her then chuckled. "Nice comeback."

"I try," Essen said humbly. "I'm a native of this city, Commissioner. I think that's all the explanation you would need."

He did, actually. There was something about Gotham natives wanting to make their city a better place than when they first entered it. Unfortunately, that was one of the first ideals that went out the window once some of the more tempting aspects of the job became apparent. Gordon didn't know how many of his fellow officers who entered into this department with that purpose only to abandon it once they discovered more lucrative prospects of it.

Hopefully she wouldn't fall prey to that temptation.

"So why the Bat-Man case?"

"Like I said, I didn't transfer here just to take it easy," Essen said. "And like you said, no one takes the law into their own hands and I will be damned if it happens in my city."

She had a good memory to go along with her intelligence as well. "I like your determination, Lieutenant. It's very refreshing."

"Thank you sir." Essen had yet to give any other sign of any emotion other than the cold professionalism he had seen from her since the briefing. He wondered for a moment if she had other emotions, but disregarded that as soon as it came to mind.

"Well, if you want it so bad, I don't see why not. Lord knows Pauling is so excited by it," Gordon said.

"I will not let you regret this," Essen reassured him and there it was, a small smile curling those lips.

* * *

Normally Falcone would have waited until the meeting at the docks to discuss Maroni's arson campaign, but last night had been more than he could bare. Upon hearing what a disaster it was, he had demanded the Italian show up at his place and bring the arsonist with him. He had used very colorful language when it came to Lynns, words that were best left unsaid in the company of women.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" the Roman roared as he bore his enraged eyes into Lynns. The white-haired man sat on the opposite side of Falcone's desk, looking unfazed by the mobster's rage. That was in stark contrast to Maroni, who had the intelligence to at least look nervous.

In the corner of the room stood his nephew, Johnny. The man was pale with the sight in front of him as well as he should be. The younger man knew the temper he had, not to mention been present for a few of the torturous ends Falcone had administered over the years.

Calmly, Lynns replied, "I burned down a building as I was supposed to."

"A building with _my_ men in it!" Falcone bellowed. "Do you have _any_ idea what you've done? You've left evidence that points to me at the fucking crime scene, you stupid bastard! Even with the cops in this city, even their dumbest can figure that one out!"

"It's not my fault they couldn't defend themselves," Lynns shot back with annoyance. "If they could, they wouldn't have been left behind."

"What do you mean 'defend themselves'? Was there some rent-a-cop that gave you trouble?"

"There was some trouble." At this, the arsonist glanced over to Johnny, something Falcone took note of. Had his nephew neglected to tell him something? "We were attacked by the Bat-Man guy, the one those newspaper people have been going on about."

Falcone gave him a disapproving look. "You killed some of my best guys because some guy in a cape interrupted you? Oh, that makes everything so much better."

"Perhaps you should hear him out," Maroni suggested, speaking up for the first time since entering the room. "Apparently there's more to this rodent man than we thought."

"He single-handed took down your 'best guys' in seconds," Lynns informed him. "The moment he crashed through the window, he began tossing them around like dolls. The guys pulled out guns and he still took 'em down."

"He got lucky," Falcone snorted. "Give me a shot at him and I guarantee you he'll go down."

The corner of Lynns' mouth twitched into a small smirk. "That won't be necessary. I took out the bat with a Molotov. He won't be any more trouble."

"That's something anyways," the Roman grunted. "You still haven't explained why that made you killed my boys."

The arsonist raised an eyebrow at this. "You would've given them a second chance to screw up again?"

Falcone glared at that while Maroni chuckled. "I have to admit, he has a point," the Italian commented slyly. "If this rodent guy can knock 'em out as easily as Lynns claims, then they weren't as good as we thought."

Still scowling, Falcone retorted, "And I would have disposed them discreetly, not leave them where the frigging cops could find them. The pigs will ID them eventually and trace them back to me. How am I going to explain why they were at the scene of an arson? I can't just say they were there to burn the place down."

"Who said they were there to burn it?" the arsonist asked.

The mob boss stared at the white-haired man. With a gesture of his hand, he granted him permission to continue. "All of the men were in the office when I set it ablaze. There's nothing in that room that links them to the fire. They could've been there to rob the office, or vandalize it, or whatever it is your people do. They just got caught up in the fire is all."

Maroni gave Falcone a look that said "You can't come up with anything better than that." Frankly, the mob boss had to agree with the younger man. "That sounds reasonable to me," the Italian said. "Just treat it like a job that went bad and give your usual denials. This'll get swept under the rug in no time."

When Falcone began to respond, Maroni continued to talk. "But with that said, we need to throw the cops off the trail. If we keep burning the other families' places, it won't take a rocket scientist to figure out that we're behind it."

"So what, you want to burn down one of our buildings?" Falcone questioned skeptically.

"Not exactly." At this Maroni leaned forward in his seat, an eager glint in his eye. "There are a few of my boys that, well, quite frankly they need to go. I'm sure you have some too. Now, what if Lynns here were to set fire to their houses? I mean, as the 'Serial Arsonist,' he's purposefully killed people. We can make him like it and start taking people out."

The Roman wasn't too comfortable with the idea. The only reason he got into this was to hit at the other families without them figuring out he was behind it. They'd be chasing after some nutjob with a box of matches for months. While the Italian brought up a good point that they couldn't keep not being unharmed by this guy, he didn't like the thought of purposefully damaging his own property. He had too much money invested in it to just let it go up in smoke.

Lynns, to his credit, remained uncaring. He was just waiting for Maroni and him to figure out his next job. If anything, Maroni was the one that was getting all wrapped up with this arsonist thing. And yet, this did present an opportunity for Falcone to "punish" the white-haired man. No more big jobs for awhile. He'd have to earn his way back up there.

"You fix up the next fire," the Roman ordered, causing Maroni to grin widely. He then directed to the arsonist, "But no more screw ups, you hear me?"

"I got the job done, didn't I?" Lynns fired back in irritation. "I even took out a potential problem too, so don't give me any lip."

Those words sent off a fury in Falcone as his rage came roaring back. "Just do your fucking job," he growled menacingly.

Lynns merely nodded his head in disgruntlement before standing up to leave. Maroni followed him out of the room, which left Falcone with Johnny.

Tilting his head to his nephew, he gave him a simple order. "Keep an eye on him. If there's any funny business, take him out."


	8. One Way Or Another

Lynns was not happy. He hadn't been happy for the last couple of days, namely because of the Roman's sudden need to micromanage everything he did. He had done his job; he had set fire to Moxon's construction company as was planned; it wasn't his fault that the guys that had been forced upon him couldn't hold up in a fist fight. In fact, it was _their_ faults that they were even dead!

And because of their failure, the arsonist was stuck with the weasley Vitti bossing him around. Falcone had made his brown-nosing nephew in charge of this operation, or so the little bastard claimed, and he was doing everything his way. Admittedly, some of his methods were useful, but the attitude—oh, how Lynns loathed the little man's attitude—was unwarranted.

Since the meeting, Vitti had taken it upon himself to find out when and where all of Maroni's targets would be. He wanted to take them all down in one fail swoop, something Lynns was against. The way the white-haired man saw it, there were five men, which meant there were fire fires that could be lit. Doing them all at once was _not _his style.

Which led him to where he was now, standing in the back alley of some seedy little bar—Joe's Tavern or something like that. Apparently Maroni's targets all hung out together and did so in a back room of this tavern. Tonight was their weekly card game, or so Vitti said. Five birds, one fire.

The sooner they got this over with, the better. Though Lynns was a do-it-yourself man, he had hired help to lug things around once more. Feeling miffed due to Falcone's lack of faith in him and Vitti's overbearing authority, the white-haired man was not in the best of moods. There were two others with them this time, a sign that the Roman didn't want to risk any more men getting caught up as collateral damage. Again, he wasn't at fault for that.

Turning around to face the two hired muscles—and blatantly ignoring Vitti—the Firefly said, "Make sure all the exits are doused in gasoline. I'll take care of the backroom, but we want to make sure they don't have a chance escaping. Understood?"

The two men nodded their heads. They were a mix-matched pair from the white-haired man's eyes. A tall, bald, black man with a shorter, dirtier looking white guy who was wearing a wool ski hat on his head. They were at least good at taking orders though.

Turning around, Lynns kneeled down somewhat and hefted up a red plastic gasoline container. Purposefully, he marched up to the backdoor of the tavern and opened it, not the least surprised to find it was unlocked. Vitti and the other two followed in silently into a brightly-lit kitchen, parting ways with each other around shelves or counters to go take care of their jobs. Unfortunately, Falcone's nephew stayed with Lynns; it seemed he wanted to keep the arsonist in his sights at all times.

Making their way further through the kitchen, blatantly ignoring the curious glances they got from the kitchen staff, Lynns could make out the pounding beat of music emanating from the mainroom. It wasn't any of that club music the younger crowds listened to nowadays, but it was of little significance to the arsonist. What was important was when Vitti suddenly increased his pace and shoved his way past Lynns, hurrying towards a back corner of the room before coming to a stop in front of a doorway. Annoyed, the white-haired man scowled at the weasel-faced gangster.

"Don't give me that look," Vitti demanded as he returned the scowl. "This is the backroom Maroni's men are in."

Lynns didn't let his glare fade as he came to a stop in front of the doorway. Stepping through it, there was a small hallway that led to a closed door. "Okay then, how do we get in?" the arsonist mocked, staring at the wooden barrier.

Vitti merely shoved his way past the arsonist again and walked right up to the door, rapping his knuckles against it. Seeing this, Lynns reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pistol, flicking the safety off. It was several moments before the door cracked open and an obscure figure blocked the flow of light out of the backroom. "What'd ya want?" a raspy voice demanded.

"Message from Maroni," Vitti grunted out, for once sounding like the low-level piece of crap Lynns always took him for. That got an immediate reaction as the door swung open, revealing an overweight thug in street clothes. Behind him was a round, wooden table where four other men sat, each with cards in their hands or a bottle of beer. Each thug was looking at them curiously.

As the overweight man stepped back for Vitti to enter, Lynns brandished his gun and pointed it right at the thug's face. In an instant, Vitti had his own gun aimed right at the other men, causing them to freeze in their seats. "Table. Now," Lynns growled, causing the man to slowly nod his head in understanding and then make his way to the table, hands held up. Once in the room, Lynns kicked the door shut, remaining stoic as the door slammed shut.

"Tie 'em up," the arsonist ordered Vitti, setting down his fuel canister.

"With what?" Vitti demanded, looking away from the men and staring at the white-haired man.

"Find something. So long as it keeps them down," Lynns retorted.

"Why don't you—" the weasel-faced man began to protest.

"I'm the one with the bigger gun and a _very_ itchy trigger finger," Lynns interrupted. "Now tie them all up."

Though he grumbled, Vitti did as he was told. It took some time and Vitti having to leave for a moment to retrieve some rope, but in the end they had all five men restrained to their seats. To make sure that no one tried to be a hero, Lynns had Vitti tie the knots and inspected them all, adjusting some of them to make sure no one would be standing up anytime soon.

Now came the fun part.

"You don't gotta do this," one of the men tried to negotiate, much to the arsonist's amusement. Putting his gun into his pocket and picking up his fuel canister, he unscrewed the cap and drenched the man with gasoline. The man sputtered and struggled against his bonds as the fuel flowed over him.

It was then the others were starting to panic, figuring out pretty quickly what he was up to. Not bad for hired muscle. As he began pouring the gas on the second one, one of the helpful minions Falcone had so generously allowed him brought in more cans. Lynns liberally applied the accelerant to each man, everyone of them struggling uselessly each time he doused one of them.

Then he got to work spreading the fuel around the room. He paid specific attention to any potential exit the men could use in the off chance they got out from their bindings. So focused on his task, Lynns paid no mind to how quiet Vitti was nor noted how he wasn't doing anything to help. Then again, he hadn't expected much out of the man in the first place, his opinion of Vitti was that high.

Once the room was doused to his satisfaction, he held the nearly empty gas can and shook it violently to spill out the rest of the fuel. Once he was done with that, he then searched his pocket for his lucky lighter. Finding it with his fingers, he grasped it and pulled it out, ready to light this place up. Would be a major improvement in his opinion.

"Don't do this, man!" one of the men shouted frantically. "We can work something out!"

"You don't know who you're messin' with!" another roared. "We're with the Italian, ya know! And he won't let you get away with this!"

Lynns raised an eyebrow at that. A bit ironic one of these guys would bring in their boss' name, especially since said boss had orchestrated this very attack. No need to tell them that though—he wasn't that cruel.

"You know, I'm jealous," he said as he glanced to his metal lighter. "You get to spend your last moments in a blaze of glory." He extended his hand, his thumb automatically striking the flint wheel and creating a flame. The lighter flame flickering for a second, but held strong after a moment. Even from where he stood, he could see the terror on the men's faces, all eyes on his hand. A sadistic grin grew on Lynn's face as he soaked in the sight. "At least you went out-"

A black-gloved hand clamped down his hand, smothering the small flame. Before Lynns could comprehend what had happened, a fist decked him in the face. He fell back, landing on his ass thanks to his hand being released in tandem with the blow. He clutched at his face with his other hand and glared through his fingers at the unexpected interloper...

...only to see that this interloper was no stranger.

Eyes widening, Lynns gasped out, "You!" before scrambling backwards from the imposing Bat. Backing into the wall, his hand shot into his pocket and pulled out his gun. Unfortunately, just as he was aiming it, the Bat-Man flung its arm in front of him, a small black object flying through the air at him. A whirling sound filled Lynns' ears before a searing pain exploded in his hand. With a cry, the man's gun flew out of his hand, the weapon colliding with the wall on the far side of the room.

Holding his injured hand, Lynns stared at the Bat in terror. How was this possible? It didn't make any sense at all! He had set that thing on fire the last time they met! There was no way it could be alive! Flinging his arms to the floor on either side of him, he tried to push further back, finding the wall behind him not budging an inch. That proved fortunate though, as one of his hands brushed against some thin object and he immediately grabbed it. Glancing down to it, the arsonist found he was holding a pool cue and lit up with glee. Pushing himself onto his feet, he charged the Bat-Man as he yelled a war cry.

With both of his hands on the cue, he attacked with the long, wooden instrument, swinging it through the air to his right. In response, the Bat backed away, letting the swing fly by harmlessly as he leaned towards a side. Anger filling him, Lynns did a backswing, hoping to hit the dark figure this time, only to have the Bat dodge it once more in the same way, leaning the other way this time.

"Stay still!" Lynns bellowed as he swung the cue stick again, this time with his left hand only. However, this time the Bat shot a hand out, grabbing the arsonist by the inside of his forearm and effectively stopping the attack. Before he knew, it, Lynns felt a fist collide with his chin, instantly snapping his head back and sending him flying backwards through the air. A dazed look appeared on his face as spit escaped his mouth. His flight ended when his back slammed into the wall, the white-haired man somehow dropping onto his feet a split-second later.

Before he could even move, Lynns felt two hands grab him by the opening of his jacket and pull him forward. Helplessly, the white-haired man watched as the Bat-Man twisted his dark body around, lifting the arsonist off the ground, and throwing him through the air. He wasn't even sure how he ended up flying upside down as the floor rushed over his head. Again, his back collided with a wall, this time the Firefly landing on his head on the ground. The rest of his body tipped over and collapsed to the floor a moment later. Spots flickered in his vision as he groaned from the abuse being afflicted on his body.

He needed to get this together...quickly. This thing, this...whatever it was was kicking his ass much to his shame. He had no doubts that if this continued any longer, he was going to die, beaten to death.

Without warning, he was suddenly righted and two soulless eyes glared into him. Lynns could look nowhere else but in them much as he wanted to look elsewhere.

A gravely voice growled at him them, sending chills running down his spine. "What are you doing with Falcone's men?" the Bat demanded harshly, his grip on Lynns' jacket tightening. "Why are you with Johnny Vitti?"

Lynns could feel his stomach sink. How? How did this creature know he was being employed? No one else had made the connection and he had been so good at making sure no one else knew. "I...I..." he sputtered. "They're not-"

The Bat released the grip of one of his hands and balled it into a fist. A moment later that fist slammed into the wall right next to the arsonist's head, causing him to flinch. "Don't lie to me. This is twice now I've seen you with Falcone's men. What's his endgame? To get rid of the other mobs?"

He couldn't answer that. Not to this Bat...thing, not in front of Maroni's men. He may play by his own rules, do things in a way that was comfortable with him, but even he knew not to do anything that would cross the higher ups on the criminal underworld. There would be no place for him to hide from the Roman or the Italian.

It was then that something caught his eye. Leaning in the doorway was the tall black henchman, who looked as if he had his face beaten to a pulp. At this point, Lynns was betting the Bat-Man had taken out the other guy and Vitti, not something that boded well for him. The black man was trying to creep his way up on the Bat in an attempt to surprise him. Hopefully he—

The Bat suddenly whipped himself to the right. With the same fist he had slammed into the wall, it swung it through the air and backhanded the thug in the face, sending him flying into another wall head first. The thug landed on the floor unconscious a moment later.

That was all the distraction Lynns needed as he threw his own fist, punching the Bat-Thing in the back of its head. A pained cry came from the creature as it stumbled away from the arsonist, releasing its hold on his jacket. Taking advantage of that, Lynns swung one of his legs and kicked out the Bat's legs, causing him to fall to the ground. Though he wanted to pound on this freak, the white-haired man needed to get his ass out of here.

Leaping over the fallen Bat, Lynns spied his lighter lying on the floor. Diving for it, he landed on the soaked floor and slid through the puddle of gasoline before grabbing it, holding onto the lighter tightly so that it didn't slip through his fingers.

Rolling onto his side and pushing himself up, Lynns looked over towards the Bat, just in time to see it pushing itself up. Instantly, Lynns flicked open the top and stuck the flint wheel, a flame dancing over his hand. "Not one more step, Bat," the arsonist threatened, the dark figure immediately coming to a halt.

Carefully, the arsonist got onto his feet, holding his lighter out and towards the bounded men. Slowly, he stepped backwards until he wasn't standing in the gasoline. "You've got a choice now," he spoke giddily. "Either stop me," at this he tossed the lighter to the floor, "or stop the fire."

A roar immediately broke out as the lighter hit the floor, the flame igniting the gas. Immediately, Lynns spun on his feet and shot out through the doorway, bursting into the kitchen. As much as he wanted to enjoy the fire, he had to get out of here. Pushing past a waiter that happened to be in his way, Lynns dashed as fast as he could out of there.

* * *

This was becoming too familiar to be comfortable. What was this, the third arson investigation he had to open in as many theys? Gordon was already beginning to feel overwhelmed even as the fire crews began pulling away from what used to be a local tavern and a known mob outfit.

Already thoughts of the last arson taunted the commissioner with its similarities. The differences were that the last arson involved a different mob boss and was an actual headquarters for mob activity. According to Bullock, Moxon was beyond livid about it. At best, this tavern was a front, just a place where mobsters gathered to shoot the breeze, enjoy some beer, and plan future crimes.

Fortunately, he had been hearing that there were witnesses—still-living witnesses—to the arson. Though not trained in the forensic skill of arson investigation, Gordon didn't need to be an expert to see that the fire had started in the back of the building. If the witnesses had been back there when the fire started, there was a good chance they were mob-connected. Or the actual perpetrators. And if they were mob, lawyers would soon be introduced and Gordon wanted something to go on before deciding which direction this investigation would go in.

He didn't want to entertain the thought that they may have a serial arsonist on their hands and if that was the case, they were going to need any lead they could get.

With that in mind, he approached his fellow officers and made his presence known with a "So what do we have?"

The small group of officers shared a look with one another as if trying to decide whether to inform their superior of their findings. Gordon didn't like how they weren't making an attempt to look at him, but he wasn't about to demand information yet. So he waited until one managed to get the guts to say, "The Bat-Man showed up."

Now that was something he hadn't been expecting. Already, the headache that he had felt growing earlier was increasing in intensity.

"Well don't that beat all?" Bullock declared from beside him, surprising him. He hadn't heard the large man come up beside him. "That makes three, Com'mish. Three arson scenes that this Bat-freak has been seen at."

Yes, he didn't need to be told that this couldn't be a coincidence. If twice was coincidence, then three times was conspiracy. He could tell by the tone of Bullock's voice that he was crowing about this.

"Can anybody tell me something else other than the Bat-Man showing up?" Gordon asked wryly, glancing at the remains of the bar.

"Well don't quote me, but I think this used to be one of Maroni's places," Bullock said helpfully. "Used to."

Now that was not a name Gordon wanted to hear involved with an arson. Moxon was one thing, but Maroni was something else altogether. It was only a matter of time until that one started poking his nose in this, demanding answers for why one of his places had gone up in smoke. Of course, they would need to talk with him anyway to see if he had any involvement in this. It wouldn't be the first time the mob burned down one of its businesses for the purpose of insurance fraud. To be honest, that would be a bit more preferable than having to deal with another Bat-Man sighting, though not by much.

"I heard there were witnesses, any identification?" he asked instead, not going further with the Maroni angle.

One of the officers, Wallace he believed his name to be, seemed to take on the position of being the liaison for his fellow officers. "We've got a lot of 'em. We're still working through the kitchen staff. Weird thing was we found these five guys in a back alley and it looked like they were all covered in gasoline. Even had rope tied around them. From what we could gather, they were blubbering about being burnt alive."

"So this was a hit," Bullock stated. "That Bat-freak's uppin' the ante."

"We don't know for sure that it was the Bat-Man that set this fire," Gordon said in reply to Bullock's statement. "I want all of those men at the station and I want them interviewed to the last detail. I want to know everything."

"Sir," a couple of the men said before going about their orders. In the meantime, Gordon turned to face his sergeant.

"Alright Bullock, what do you have for me?"

"Concerning this arson?" the large man clarified with the raise of an eyebrow. "Still workin' on it."

"I meant the other arsons. Surely you have something."

"Why didn't you say so?" At this, Bullock pulled out his pad of paper and flipped through a few of the sheets before settling on a page. "We just got an ID on a couple of those guys at Moxon's. Turned out they were low level thugs for Falcone. Not much of a stretch to say the rest of them are also with the Roman. Went to interview the goombah before I got here and he played the innocent card. If I had to guess, it looks like his boys were stealing stuff from Moxon's office and they got caught up in the fire."

Gordon let out a low whistle. "First Falcone's boys get killed, then Maroni's were targeted. Whoever this arsonist is, he's making himself quite a list of enemies," he commented.

"I doubt that," Bullock shrugged. "Odd thing is, there were barrels found in the place. Oil barrels. My rooks found some in the warehouse and then in the office. If I was a bettin' man, I'd say someone put those barrels in there and it ain't Moxon."

"Why would Moxon try and torch his own place," the Commissioner summed up. Bullock was right, there was something fishy about that whole thing. Considering that Falcone's boys had been found in the office with those oil drums, it was a distinct possibility that they had put them there. Perhaps this arsonist wasn't a lone wolf at all.

"My thinkin' too, Com'mish." The sergeant flipped over a page before he lowered the pad. "Now that the Bat's been popping up at all these scenes, it's got me thinkin' if the Bat is our arsonist. At the one Mason spotted him at, he could've been making sure he didn't leave any evidence behind. Then at Moxon's he was busy setting everything up when Falcone's goons walked in. There's a big fight and the Bat knocks 'em all out and sets the place on fire. That gives 'em the taste of burning bodies, so now he tries it again with Maroni's crew."

"Interesting theory," Gordon acknowledged.

"Yet it doesn't fit in with what we know of the Bat," a new voice interjected. Both men turned to see Essen sauntering up to them. Coming to a stop on the opposite side of Gordon, she added, "If he's going around setting places on fire, why bother beating up on a bunch of robbers in a museum?"

"Perhaps he was gonna burn that place too," Bullock retorted, not the least bit glad to see her. "Those robbers come in and makes him fight. That gives the SWAT boys time to move in and he has to make a quick getaway."

"If that's so, then why didn't we find oil drums in the museum?" Essen quipped. "Or anywhere near? Why try to burn down a museum when all the others have ties to the mob?"

"For all we know, museum's a front for the mob too," Bullock shot back.

"That the city runs?" Essen asked skeptically.

"What's the difference?" Bullock said.

"A lesser evil," Gordon interjected. "But they're not the ones we're after tonight. What's your progress, Lieutenant?"

"There's been a lot of Bat stories," Essen said, shifting her posture to stand straighter. "The streets are covered with them."

"The hell?" Bullock exclaimed. "I ain't heard no bat before now."

"That's because everyone was keeping quiet," Essen retorted. "They thought of him as some kind of demon that would appear out of nowhere. If you recall, there have been some unexplained cases of thugs having the crap beat out of them the last few months. The media was what gave him his name. I've even found rumors that he was the one responsible for Mashkov's sudden disappearance."

Bullock grunted at that. "I doubt that. More like some spooked punks just givin' the moron credit."

"The trail goes months back," Essen argued heatedly.

"Sounds to me it started like some kind of rumor an' now some wackjob is takin' advantage of it," Bullock retorted.

"A nice theory, but there's no evidence to back it up," Gordon intervened in an attempt to keep both officers from escalating their debate. "I don't need dissension in the ranks. Essen, report to me when you have something solid. Bullock, the same goes for you. If I judge that there's a connection between this fire and the others, it'll go to you."

"There's already a connection, Com'mish," Bullock. "The Bat-freak."

"Be that as it may, I don't want you at each other's throats, especially out here in the open," Gordon said.

"What do you think, Commissioner?" Essen asked. "Do you think the Bat-Man is responsible?"

Gordon sighed. "I don't know anything right now."

"What does your gut say?" Essen pressed.

"My gut?" Gordon had to restrain a wry chuckle. "My gut is telling me not to jump to conclusions. Sergeant. Lieutenant." He bid his farewells and turned away from the officers, heading towards other investigators.

He hadn't told Essen the whole truth. While his gut was indeed telling him not to jump to conclusions, it was also telling him that the Bat-Man was not responsible for the fire. From a pragmatic standpoint, there was no concrete evidence to say he was responsible. Yet he couldn't get the image of the Bat-Man standing on the museum roof, dark and foreboding. Add to it that he hadn't killed any of those armed men, only subdued them, it didn't make sense that he would move on up to homicide.

Besides, what kind of murderer dresses like that?

There was something else about this. Both the Bat-Man and this recent arson. He just couldn't figure it out. As he weaved his way through the mess of law enforcers, he could hear some of them whispering about the mystery at hand and more than a few of them already blaming the Bat-Man.

Gordon was sure that in time the evidence would tell them what had really happened. And they had witnesses this time—living witnesses. They should be able to explain what happened here. If they valued their lives, they should be more than willing to tell them what had happened if only for the purpose of self-preservation.

They would get to the bottom of this. One way or another.


	9. A Turn For The Worst

The bright light of the computer screen lit up Lois Lane's face as she focused on it. The sound of computer keys being pressed filled her ears, her eyes watching as word after word scrolled across the digital paper. That was until she ran into a small problem.

"Hey Vale," she called out casually, "How many P's are in appraisal?"

At the desk behind her, the dark-haired woman heard an aggrieved sigh. "Two P's, Lois, two."

A snarky smirk grew over Lois' face. Although she legitimately had problems spelling, she always got a kick out of annoying her fellow co-workers with her word-confirmation questions. Some of them merely brushed it off while others had steadily began groaning at her requests. And then there were people like Vicki who truly detested it. Vale had been a fresh-faced college graduate ready to begin her journey into journalism, but hit a slight roadblock when no one was hiring. Lois knew her type well. The redhead had probably balked at any job she found unsuitable until she finally realized she wasn't going to get the position she wanted, only then giving into possible employment in crap jobs. Unfortunately, her fellow brethren had already reached that point and took those jobs, which left Vale getting even more desperate, going so far as to take up the only opening the Star had: photographer. It was a job she had yet to escape from so far and it was made only worse by watching what the redhead must have deemed as a less worthy reporter make it big.

Not that Lois cared. She had taken her licks, earned her keep, and was now being taken to the big time. Metropolis was the fabled Holy Grail when compared to Gotham. The City of Perpetual Night, while adventurous in its own right, was monotonous in its choice of stories. Police corruption was daily news, murders a dime a dozen. After a while, one became desensitized to it all. A yearning for new, fresher stories became all consuming. That was what Metropolis was to her.

And that's when a bat fell into her lap.

Lois didn't feel the least bit guilty of cornering Gordon on the stand—well, maybe a little. He was one of the better cops on the force, but after what felt like a lifetime of drudging through bureaucratic red tape, half-truths, and flat out lies, she didn't care who she got the truth out of. Still, maybe she should send him a present...bath salts or something. That man could use a good soak.

"One thing I will never understand," Vicki's voice broke through the dark-haired woman's musing, "is how someone like _you_ can be considered one of the best reporters in the city."

"It's a matter of talent, Vale," Lois replied smoothly. "Something I have an abundance of. By the way, how many T's in attrition?"

At this, Lois couldn't help but look over her shoulder to see Vicki's reaction and she wasn't disappointed. The redhead was visibly seething over her messy, computer-less desk. Since she wasn't a journalist, she wasn't afforded the luxury of a computer, so Vicki had taken to placing her camera equipment all over it, along with many of the photographs she had taken over her tenure. There were even captions in an attempt to get people to sample her writing. Desperate, but Lane could find no fault in that. It was still pathetic though.

"Three, _Lois_," the woman growled.

Turning around to continue her article, Lois continued, "So tell me, Vale, what about me can't you stand? The good looks? The reputation? My pink bunny slippers?"

"I can't stand how you managed to land one of the top gigs at the Star, but can't spell to save your life. How does someone even get out of college like that? Did you ask your imaginary friends to help, or did you just do your college professors?"

"Sounds like you're speaking from experience," Lois commented dryly. "I'm not interested in your sorority days, Vale, but if you must know, I did have some help."

"And what was that?"

"Spell-check."

Vicki was silent for several moments. "I hate you."

A silence enveloped the two as the redhead seethed while the dark-haired woman worked in smug satisfaction. And then, "Hey Vale, how many R's in reprehensible?"

* * *

The limo came to a halt, sending jittery butterflies throughout Julie's system. It had taken far longer than she had expected to get a second date out of Bruce Wayne, but she had been successful. A couple days after she had found out about his accident with the fireplace, the billionaire had called her and asked if she could go out to dinner. She had tried to maintain an air of calm, but that had shattered the moment she had greedily accepted the invitation. One hectic day at the set later and she was decked out in a dark dress and waiting for her ride.

The door of the limo opened wide and an arm was held out in front of her. Taking it, Julie used it to help climb herself out of the long car, smiling warmly at the elderly gentleman who had assisted her. His thin frame was covered in a dark uniform and cap, informing everyone that he was the chauffeur.

Bruce climbed out a second later, not the least bit hampered by what must've been painful burns. Regardless, he was just as dashing as she recalled. Hopefully this date would end so much better than the previous one.

"Thanks for the ride, Alfred," Bruce said to the elderly man, a smirk on his face. "I'll let you know when we're ready to leave."

"Very good, Sir," Alfred replied in that impeccable British accent of his. It had been this man that had answered her call and he was just as she had imagined him to be: very formal, uptight, and had a chivalrous streak the size of the Mississippi.

Offering an arm out, Bruce asked, "Shall we?"

Accepting the arm, Julie allowed herself to be led to the entrance of the restaurant. L'élite was a place of high society. You needed reservations six months in advance in order to get a table, unless you knew the right person. Considering that Bruce Wayne had bought out the place...umm, sometime ago—there had been a whole news article about it Julie recalled—it was merely a snap of the fingers to get a table.

Entering the restaurant, Julie saw ownership had spared no expense to make this the most expensive establishment in the city. Crystal chandeliers lit up the two story room, a polished staircase leading up to the second story. Tables draped in tasteful table clothes were positioned throughout both floors with richly-dressed occupants at each table. This truly was a club for high society.

Yet, before one could join the other diners, they had to approach a small podium where a rather snooty-looking man stood, looking down his nose at the two of them for a fraction of a second. It seemed he recognized Bruce Wayne and immediately went into his helpful employee role. "Welcome to L'élite, Monsieur Wayne and Mademoiselle," he greeted them as he stepped around the podium and gave an elaborate bow. Straightening out his posture, he pulled out two large menus from somewhere behind his stand and beckoned them with an outstretched hand. "If you would follow me."

"Lead the way," Bruce merely answered, looking quite bemused by the man's routine. Julie kept her mouth shut as she soaked in the environment. She was quite content to letting Bruce lead her behind the host as they followed the man to the staircase and up onto the second floor. Whereas the first floor had been full of people, the second floor was emptier with many tables going unoccupied. This must have been set up for the VIPs, or so the actress thought.

Soon, Julie found herself sitting down at a small, square table, the host pushing her chair up behind her as she sat down in it. Bruce took the seat across from her, looking comfortable with his surroundings; it was natural since he had grown up in such a place whereas she hadn't. If she wanted to attend other extravagant dining, she was sure she would have to get over her awe quickly.

Setting the menus down in front of the diners, the host said, "A waiter will be with you shortly. Have a good evening, Monsieur and Madam." Spinning on his heels, he then left the two to their own devices.

Feeling as if she should start the conversation, Julie said, "It's good to see you again, Bruce. I'm glad to see you're doing better."

Bruce gave her a wide smirk as he leaned towards her, resting an arm on the table. "I'm glad you called. I see my charm hasn't quite abandoned me."

"Are you sure that you're feeling better? Your burns aren't bothering you, are they?" she asked.

"It's kind of you to ask and yes, the worst is over," Bruce answered. "Enough about that. How's that movie coming along? That still is being filmed, right?"

"We do have some more scenes to do, yes," Julie said. Opening up the menu, it took every ounce of her control to not widen her eyes at the selection and more importantly the prices. Eating here one night would take all she made in one month. At least that's what it seemed like.

"Something wrong?" Bruce said, eyes twinkling.

"Sorry, but I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed. I've never eaten in a place like this," Julie admitted.

"And soon you will," Bruce replied. "I hope you accept my apology for the other night."

"Well, it'll depend on how good the food is," Julie responded, a hint of steel in her voice. "It's not often I'm left behind at a party by my date."

"A grave sin on my part, leaving such a beautiful woman like yourself like that," Bruce said as he idly opened his menu. Julie noted that he wasn't remotely intimidated by the prices, but then again he was Bruce Wayne, billionaire extraordinaire. Taking her cue, Julie began reading over her own menu, trying her best to figure out just what each entree was. Unfortunately, that silence was ended mere moments later.

"Bruce?"

She knew that voice. How could she _not_ know that voice. Looking up from the menu, the actress saw Veronica Vreeland looking at them blankly with a rather handsome man at her arm. What was she doing here?

"Veronica!" Bruce greeted cheerily. "Come to try out my new restaurant?"

The redhead crossed her arms under her bosom, not the least bit hindered by her escort's arm, a snarky smirk growing on her face. "As a matter of fact, I've been here before, which is more than I can say for you."

"I am a busy man, Veronica," Bruce shrugged unapologetically.

"Apparently not too busy if you have yourself a date." Veronica's eyes slide over towards her and Julie did her best not to squirm. She kept telling herself that these people were like sharks and could smell her unease. _Remain strong, show no weakness_. "Well, if this isn't a surprise. The same girl on a different occasion? That's certainly new."

Why was it that Julie preferred that Veronica didn't remember her? Although the woman obviously did not care for her, it was in the actress' best interest to be tolerant of the redhead's behavior. Otherwise van Sant would have her head on a pike by midnight.

"It's a pleasure to see you again," she greeted, a fake smile appearing on her face.

"The pleasure is all yours," Veronica replied flippantly.

"Hey! I have an idea!" Bruce announced excitedly. "Why don't we share a table? It'll be like a double date!"

That annoying smirk appeared on the Vreeland woman's face. "I'd like that Brucie." Instantly, Bruce was snapping his fingers towards someone of the waitstaff, gesturing to his table. Before Julie knew it, she had Veronica to her left and her date—Michael she found out—sitting to her right. That meant Veronica was right next to Bruce and she had no shame and keeping her hands within two inches of him.

Julie did not like this at all. It was obvious to Julie what Veronica was doing. Despite the fact that she was here with another man, Veronica was paying more attention to Bruce instead. And seeing how Michael wasn't raising too much of a fuss, either because Veronica had a lot more money than him or he was here for the purpose of moving up the social ladder, Julie's hands were tied.

She certainly hadn't the kind of pull that Veronica did and the last thing that Julie wanted was to lose her job and she didn't put it above van Sant to side with the socialite. He'd go along with her or whoever Veronica could get in touch with at the studios.

The only person who could do something about it was the only person at the table with more money and power than Veronica Vreeland and that person happened to be her date. Not Veronica's, hers. Julie's.

And he was busy lapping up everything the witch was saying.

"Bruce, you just _have_ to try the _boeuf bourguignon_," Veronica whined.

Bruce was looking at the menu unimpressed. "I don't know, Ronnie, I was hoping for something with meat." Leaning towards Michael, he nudged his elbow into the man and added, "You know what I mean, right?"

Veronica giggled incessantly as she lightly slapped Bruce's shoulder, causing Julie to grip her menu with irritation. "Silly Bruce, it does have meat in it."

"If you say so," the dark-haired man replied dubiously. His blue eyes then flickered over to Julie. "What do you think, Julie? Have you found something?"

Allowing a small smile to appear on her lips, the actress said, "I was thinking of-"

"I'm sure there's a salad she could eat," Veronica interrupted dismissively, clearly trying to keep Julie out of the conversation. "They do have decent ones here."

Julie gritted her teeth before saying, "Perhaps I'll take you up on that suggestion of yours for the _boeuf bourguignon_. It must be good if you say it is."

Veronica merely gave her a look that clearly stated the actress was beneath her. "I'm sure you'll like it," she said after a moment. Then eagerly, she turned back to Bruce and added, "Now we need to find you something, Brucie. Don't you worry about anything, I know what's good here."

Oh, how Julie hated this woman.

* * *

Gordon stood facing the two-way mirror, giving him a view into the interrogation room. One of the men who had allegedly been inside the tavern before it caught fire was finishing up telling his versions of events. So far it seemed like Essen's versions of events were being supported to a point.

The Bat-Man had been there, which brought up the question why he was there in the first place. There was also the fact that there had been a white-haired man also present and reportedly had been the one to restrain the witness along with his buddies.

At the moment, two others were in other interrogation rooms, being interviewed as the term was nowadays. Gordon was curious to hear what they had to to say as well as put all the stories of each individual man together to see what the whole picture would look like. So far it sounded like these men were going to be deliberately burned alive. Unfortunately, the man under interrogation before him hadn't had a clear view as to who had set the fire, something that Gordon hoped would be clarified by the other men.

For the time being, only three of the five would be capable of being interviewed. The other two were currently receiving treatment at Gotham General for burn wounds. How badly, Gordon did not know at the moment, but once the doctors gave them the clear they would be in police custody. As a precaution, he had them under guard already. No sense having these men assassinated once word got out that there were no identifiable victims in the blaze.

Yet, they were still trying to verify that these men were members of the mob. He had men on that, though they were sure taking their time. Sure, it was obvious that they were part of the mob since they were almost killed in the backroom of a bar that was mob-owned—Maroni's to be precise—but the men were adamant in keeping mum for some reason.

They were scared, Gordon deduced. Gordon didn't blame them; being burned alive wasn't something on his list of top things to do before he died. There was more to this than what they were being told but Gordon couldn't make any conjectures. He could only work with hard evidence and on occasion circumstantial. Outside of that, he didn't have much wiggle room.

Yet, they weren't the only men taken into custody. Three unconscious men had been found too, one of which wouldn't be of any use. The thought of burning alive didn't sit well with the commissioner; it brought a queasy feeling to his stomach. Of the other two, one was just common street trash; the second one, however, was of great interest.

Johnny Vitti was well known as Carmine Falcone's nephew. He was also known for not acting without his uncle's direct approval—this included answering police questions. The man had his lips tighter than a pickle jar and the only thing he had said so far was that he wanted his lawyer. So into the jail cell he went.

The door to the viewing room he was in opened and Gordon didn't have to take his eyes off the mirror to know who it was.

"So what do we know?" Essen asked, taking her place next to Gordon.

"Other than confirmation that the Bat-Man was indeed at the scene of the crime?" Gordon asked rhetorically. "According to this one, there was another person there, a white-haired man. He's given no other physical descriptions of the man. He also didn't see the fire start and he's not sharing who was the one to start it."

"What about after?" Essen pressed him. "How did he get out?"

"'It was all a blur' and that's the quote," Gordon answered. "With the fire and the smoke, I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't see much of anything." Turning to face Essen, he continued, "I'm heading back to my office. Do you mind sticking around? If need be, you can take a crack at this one."

Essen nodded and Gordon took his leave, entering the hallway outside of the room and moving into the traffic. He hadn't seen this place this busy in quite some time. Apparently the arsons and the Bat-Man were bringing everyone back in. It was a silver lining in all this craziness, but not something Gordon relished in. He wouldn't be surprised if many of the dirty ones were here only for the reason to find out who was responsible for the arsons and inform their mob connections about it—double agents that unfortunately Gordon could not live without.

Reaching his office, he entered without a care though he paused long enough at the open window. Hadn't he closed that earlier? He couldn't remember if he had opened it. Was someone in here without his knowledge? He wouldn't be surprised at that last one and a list of suspects for that was a long one.

Closing the window and taking the precaution of locking it, Gordon turned to his desk, pulling out his chair and almost collapsing into it. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his forehead as he reclined back. Everything was moving so fast and he was having trouble keeping up. He wouldn't be surprised if what was happening now was heralding in inevitable retirement—inevitable because it wouldn't be on his own terms.

Letting out a long suffering sigh, Gordon lowered his hand and sat up straight. With his eyes open, he immediately zoomed in on a folded piece of paper. He didn't know why, but something about it...stuck out. It was like it shouldn't have been there. Despite the appearance of his desk, there was some order to it. Papers weren't scattered around it, they were stacked in a manner that made sense to him and him alone. Others would be mystified by it, but Gordon would never be lost. It might take a little time, but he always found what he was looking for.

This folded piece of paper was placing on a small stack of manila folders, each of them an inch thick. A corner of the paper was hanging off the side of the top folder and that's what caught his attention about it. He didn't leave his office without leaving something that resembled order on his desk.

Picking it up, Gordon on folded the paper and read the words scrawled on it.

MEET ME ON THE ROOF

Straight and to the point. Gordon raised his eyes to the ceiling, then back to the paper. Now who left this? Could it have been his benefactor from before, the one who had helped him out against Mason's union lawyer? If so, he owed the person something, yet there was always the possibility that this could be a trap.

With another sigh, he reached over to a drawer and pulled it open. Snagging a packet of cigarettes, he stuffed it into his pocket and closed the drawer shut. If he was going to be going on the roof and someone went after him, he was going to need some kind of excuse to be up there.

Snagging his coat, he left his office, stopping only to lock it before setting out for the roof. Transversing the maze of desks and police personnel, he made his way to a door with a small plaque of a stick figure walking up stairs. Opening the door, he entered the stairwell and began climbing up the stairs. Two sets of stairs later and he had reached the top where another door lay, a sign with red EXIT letters hanging above it. There was also a mention of roof access on the door itself, but Gordon paid it no mind as he pushed it open, stepped through the doorway, and let the door slam shut behind him.

The first thing the commissioner saw was open space. The roof was never really cluttered aside from the presence of bird droppings. Glancing to his left, he saw the same sight as the roof came to an end with a concrete barrier. Beyond the barrier were tall skyscrapers, the buildings assembled during the intervening time between the founding of the GCPD building and now. A look to the left showed several large air-conditioning units, two of which were loudly whining as their fans spun. There also seemed to be a large rising of steam as well. And yet, something about them beckoned the elderly man.

Gordon paused to consider the note. Whoever had wrote it had gone to extreme lengths to keep it secret. Sneaking into his office and hiding it among the files on his desk—this person obviously didn't want to be seen by the other officers. Logically he'd go to someplace hidden at his designated meeting spot. Squeezing his grip on the cigarette carton, he walked to the A/C units and began wandering among them.

Minutes passed and there was no sign of his mystery person. Gordon even made multiple searchers through the maze of machinery and steam and had nothing to show for it. Irritation began welling up within the elderly man. What was the big idea of leading him up here and not going through with the meet? Some people were just so inconsiderate. He had more important things to do than to stand around up here like an idiot and be duped.

As a scowl worked its way over his face, a flapping sound caught his attention. It was continuous, like a flag waving in the breeze. Conveniently, there was a breeze blowing by, though it was someway stifled by the cooling units. Keeping as still as possible, the commissioner could feel his heart beating faster in his chest. Steeling his resolve, he slowly turned around to locate the source of the flapping.

That's where he saw it. On top of one of the A/C units was the man in black. He would know that figure anywhere. Blank white eyes stared down from a dark, horned head. The flapping Gordon had been hearing was coming from the black shroud that covered him, stretching from one shoulder and down towards the leg of his opposite side. Only the man's right shoulder wasn't covered by the covering—or was it a cape? Still, whatever it was, it prevented Gordon from knowing whether this man-bat guy was sitting or crouching on the metal behemoth.

"I take it this isn't a social call," Gordon said, speaking the first thing that came to his mind.

The man in black just continued to stare down at him.

"I suppose it's also too much to expect that you're here to turn yourself in?" Gordon asked. This man was wanted by the police after all; he had to at least attempt to fulfill that order.

This caused a reaction this time: the man slowly nodded his head in answer.

"I figured as much," Gordon sighed warily. Pulling out the small piece of paper that he had found on his desk and showing it to the disguised man, he continued, "This is your note, right?"

A deep, gravely voice replied, "It is."

"So why did you want to see me?" Gordon asked. "You could have just called." He didn't know why he was being so glib with this person. If the show he put on at the museum was any indication, this man could pulverize him.

"You need help."

"I need a lot of things. What makes you think I need your help?" Gordon retorted, putting the piece of paper back into his pocket. There was an ulterior motive to that as now his hand was closer to his sidearm. He felt slightly more comfortable now that he was in a better position to pull it out.

The man in black remained silent for several moments, long enough to set the commissioner further into his unease. Finally though, the man answered, "You're surrounded by men bought by the mob, but you already know that. I've watched you; you're one of the last decent men in this city willing to fight for it. That's why I want to help you."

"I'm listening," Gordon said, making no further commitment. He didn't need this man to tell him what he already knew, though he couldn't help but preen a bit at the compliment.

"I can help you find out who you can trust...and those you can't. Sergeant Gil Mason, for instance."

"You were the one to place that folder on my desk, weren't you?" Gordon accused. Upon receiving a nod in the affirmative, "Well, thank you for that. But you're not telling me anything that I don't know."

"It got Mason off the streets, didn't it?" the man countered. "Of course, the IA case against him has taken a hit recently."

"Because of your exposure."

Another nod. "I have more information and not just on Mason. Every cop, every judge, every meter-maid has a list of criminal offenses and I can give it to you. You can use it to gain leverage on these cops and turn the police department around. Or...you don't. It's all up to you."

"You're saying this as if I have a choice," Gordon responded heatedly. If there was one thing he didn't like, it was being backed into a corner, especially by know-it-all vigilantes that had arrest notices out for them. "Let's say I accept your offer and try to use it. What is there to stop them from silencing me and confiscating it?"

"They could silence you, but they can't silence the media. This way you can control the fallout."

"Unless they are the ones that control the media," Gordon countered. "All it takes is a juicy scandal and attention is shifted away. Like Sergeant Gil Mason, for instance."

"Then I'll take care of it," the man-bat responded, not the least bit put off by Gordon's reluctance. "They won't be able to stop me."

"As of now, yes," Gordon admitted, "but you do know that there are those within the department who believe you are no better than the criminals out there. That you are the one responsible for those arsons out there. Are you responsible for those and if so, does that mean you're going to set half of Gotham on fire?"

The man in black fell silent at that. He seemed lost in his thoughts for several moments before he moved. An arm emerged from his dark shroud and flung something through the air. It landed on the ground a few feet in front of Gordon with a sharp clang, sliding over the roof for another foot. Staring at it, the commissioner found it to be a small, plastic bag and inside of it...a lighter? He looked up with puzzlement of this man-bat. "What's this?"

"The lighter belongs to your arsonist; his fingerprints are all over it. You should be able to identify him with that."

"How do I know this legitimately belongs to who you claim it does and not some innocent person?" Gordon questioned suspiciously as he bent down to pick up the bagged lighter.

"You don't. But the men you brought in for interrogation told you about a man with white-hair, blue eyes, approximately six foot tall, weighing between 150 and 160 pounds, muscular, and very sadistic."

Gordon paused. That did sound like the second suspect. In fact, this was more detailed than he had expected. He would have to go through the interviews and make sure that these men identified the man as the man-bat had. It wasn't that he didn't trust him, but he had no reason to trust him to begin with.

"I'll look further into that. If that happens to be the case and this white-haired man is the arsonist, it won't be too much trouble to slip this into evidence," Gordon finally said. "Tell me, since you know so much, does this man have a motive for these arsons? Why is he going after known mob businesses?"

Another moment of silence passed before, "At the Moxon arson, he was working with men belonging to Carmine Falcone. They were unloading barrels of oil and placing them throughout the building. Apparently Falcone doesn't trust this man; Johnny Vitti was with him."

"That's a familiar name," Gordon remarked. He did his best to suppress the excitement he felt at that revelation. "Falcone's nephew, right? I have him down in lock-up. Isn't talking, not that that's any surprise."

"I know."

_I know? That's all he's got?_ Gordon didn't like that answer. It wasn't helpful in the least bit to his investigation. "I'll look into this," he said for lack of anything else to say. "I can't promise anything will come of this."

The man nodded his head. "I'll catch him the next time he shows his face."

"You do know that vigilantism is against the law, correct?"

"Consider it a citizen's arrest."

Gordon shook his head and looked down, taking his eyes off the masked man for a second. Probably not the best thing to do, but it was something he tended to do when his ex-wife was being stubborn. He couldn't help it. "How do I know you can be trusted?"

"Again, you don't. But know this: I'm the only friend you've got."

Gordon raised his eyebrows and looked back up. "Friend?"

The commissioner had to do a double-take. He was gone. That man, somehow, had vanished into thin air. With a frantic swing of his head, he searched all over for this man in black, but failed to find him. Where had he gone? Feeling frustrated, Gordon began making his way out from the maze of A/C units. It'd be best if he wasn't seen as hiding out up here.

Unfortunately, just as he arrived in the wide open space of the roof, the door to the roof opened and out came an officer who seemed surprised to see him up here. "Commissioner? What are you doing up here?"

Doing his best to shield the bagged lighter, he hid it into his pocket and removed the pack of cigarettes he had on him. "Came out for a smoke," he said as he pulled one out. "Quit three hours ago."

The officer stared dumbly at him. "You have a light?" Gordon asked, trying to sound pleasant. "I...left mine in my office."

With a shrug, the man pulled out a lighter and a moment later the commissioner was taking in a lungful of nicotine. With an exhale, he breathed it all out, a large puff of smoke surrounding him. "Thanks."

"They were looking for you downstairs," the officer said then, sounding a bit uncomfortable in his presence. Considering the man was young, that was most likely the case.

"Tell them I'll be down in a moment," Gordon responded before taking another drag.

Soon enough, Gordon was all by his lonesome, the closing of the door solidifying that fact. Gazing out into the city, Gordon wondered where that man in black was now and if he should be worried.

He had a feeling that things were about to take a turn for the worst.


	10. To Remind Everyone Why

A bit of a short chapter, but this is all set-up for the next one, which will be much more entertaining.

* * *

Thomas Elliot was quite surprised that morning when his secretary buzzed him. Though he was a very quirky man who tended to be boisterous and gregarious, he was all business when it came to Elliot Pharmaceuticals. Everything worked like a well-oiled machine. He was always aware of appointments days in advance, had everything scheduled so that he could get the maximum amount of work in a day possible and the only surprises came from the labs whenever they discovered something.

So you could understand why he was tempted to have whoever it was that was interrupting his schedule thrown out of the building. He did not appreciate walk-ins and he was not aware that he had any appointments set up for this morning.

Everyone knew of his strictness in this and that was why the last time he had a secretary, who happened to be quite passive-aggressive and interfered with his well-oiled machine of a company, fired, she was blackballed from finding any work in Gotham. So in short, his current secretary knew how he liked to run things and knew better than to hold back any information such as, oh he didn't know, appointments for instance.

Buzzing her back, "Who happens to be calling so early?" he spoke into the intercom that was affixed into his desk

_"It's Bruce Wayne, Mr. Elliot."_

And in an instant, Elliot's tune changed. Well, it was Bruce Wayne, playboy bachelor extraordinaire and wealthy billionaire he might add. Oh, and childhood friend, can't forget that one. Oh what to do...

"Bruce Wayne you say?" he buzzed his secretary back, knowing that Bruce would be able to hear him. "Hmm, I'm going to have to think about that one. Have you checked his ID? He's not some escapee from Arkham, is he?"

A moment the length of a heartbeat passed and then he got his response, not from his secretary, but from a deeper bass of a voice. _"I suppose I'll just have to kidnap this beautiful young woman here as compensation for coming all the way out here. You never told me that you get to see an incredible beauty like this everyday. I'm jealous."_

"If you do that, I'll have to charge you with kidnapping and sabotage," Elliot chuckled. "Let's skip all that, why don't we? Show Bruce in."

As soon as he was reclining back in his seat, the door to his office opened and the big man himself was shown in. With a dismissing wave towards his secretary, Elliot waited until the door was firmly closed before he began to speak.

"So what brings you in today, Bruce? If it's for some pills, I'm going to have to turn you down. It is my ethical obligation to do so," he said in jest.

"Well, when you put it that way, I think I could use some painkillers," Bruce chuckled as he took a seat in one of the two chairs that rested across his desk.

"You're not abusing narcotics, are you Bruce? What would the world think if it's most prominent philanthropist was a junkie?" Elliot asked with a smirk.

"I know what they would think. They'd think 'oh, typical Bruce,'" Bruce replied.

"Sadly, I believe that would happen," Elliot admitted. "So as I said earlier, what brings you in today?"

Elliot observed as the playful mien of Bruce Wayne dropped away for the more business-minded and serious facet of him. Extracurricular activities aside, there was a reason why Wayne Enterprises was one of the largest corporations on the planet. Elliot would admit to being jealous to how far its reach actually extended.

"I wanted to tell you myself, personally, that I'm going to bring your proposal to my board of directors," Bruce said, leaning forward in his seat as he stared the redhead down.

Well, well, would surprises never cease? This was actually a good surprise and while it wasn't the big OK he was hoping for, it was still a step in the right direction for his venture. It was also a revelation whether Bruce knew it or not. By saying that he was going to forward his business venture to the Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors, it meant that Bruce had some reservations about it, but those reservations weren't strong enough to completely dissuade him from turning his proposal down outright.

Regardless, his proposal had a fighting chance still and once those directors got a whiff of the potential profits they stood to gain from this, they would be on board for it. While money may not be important to someone of Bruce Wayne's stature, everyone else was human and greedy as hell.

Elliot revealed none of his thoughts as he flashed Bruce a glowing smile. "That's great! You don't know how much this has improved my day. If you were a woman, I'd be committing some sexual harassment now by kissing you."

"Thank God I'm not, or I would be suing you for sexual harassment," Bruce retorted, his more playful demeanor making a return.

"As if you need the cash Bruce," Elliot chuckled.

"Or maybe I could use some cash to burn a hole in my pocket, Tommy," Bruce said.

"Ah yes, so rich that the cash from a lawsuit can only be used for that," Elliot replied in good humor. "Or you need more toilet paper, Bruce."

"I have better uses for money than for something like that," Bruce grumbled, letting loose a rather loud snort in the process. "In fact, I can think of a million of them."

"I'm sure your can," Elliot agreed. "So why don't you go on with your bad self and deliver my pitch to your board of directors? Let's get the ball rolling."

"I'll give you a call once I have something set up. If I have trouble, you can bail me out and give a more...concise explanation of your proposal," Bruce said as he stood up from his seat. In jest, the dark-haired man added, "Now I feel like you only want me for my money."

"Don't be like that, Bruce. You still have your devilish looks, but I will always be the handsome one," Elliot responded.

"You certainly do have a way with words," Bruce said with a roll of his eyes.

"I like to call charisma," the redhead replied as he stood up and held out a hand.

"Call it what you like," Bruce countered as he accepted Elliot's hand and shook it. "Here's to revolutionizing the world as we know it."

"Indeed," Elliot agreed, heart beginning to pound in anticipation. "Is it Monday already?"

"More like Wednesday. I'll see you around Tommy." And with that, Bruce concluded their meeting.

"Don't be a stranger!" he called after his childhood friend and once the door to his office closed, Elliot plopped himself back into his seat.

Things were moving in the right direction at least. He couldn't wait. His brainchild was about to become a reality, one that as Bruce himself said would revolutionize the world. There was also that little matter of filling his overflowing bank accounts with even more capital as well, but that was just a perk. A really big perk.

Whoever said he wasn't a noble soul?

* * *

It was Essen who came in with the results of the lighter. Apparently she had been on her way to inform him of her progress on the Man-Bat case and had been asked to deliver the fingerprint analysis results while she was at it. Reportedly there was some excitement from forensics, which was always a good sign.

Gordon had the file open, eyes scanned over the information he found. Just like he expected, there was a positive match. Good, good. Better yet, there was a rap sheet to go along with the prints. He'd have to go through the files to get every last detail, but for now all that mattered was that they had a new suspect.

Not just any suspect, but a prime suspect.

It had been a simple matter for Gordon to slip the lighter into evidence and after about a day when he had heard nothing, he had gone and made sure that forensics got a look at it. He put out there that he wanted the forensics on the lighter done as soon as possible and for once, he was listened to.

"Judging by that smile on your face, I take it it's good news," Essen said wryly.

"You'd be right. We have a new lead," he informed her as he closed the file. "I'm going to have to ask you to hold off your report for a little bit. I hope you understand."

"Not at all," Essen replied. "I figured from how excited the lab techs were that this was going to be big. If anything, it'll help my investigation."

"And you're sure about that?" Gordon asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

"What better way to propel my case than to eliminate possible crimes my perpetrator is involved with?" Essen countered.

_Indeed_, Gordon thought to himself. "Depending on how this all falls out, I might need you to drop what you're doing and help out with this. That's a maybe at the moment, Lieutenant, but be prepared."

"Sounds like something is heating up," Essen commented.

Pushing his glasses up, Gordon retorted, "Considering the situation, that comment is somewhat inappropriate. Now if you'll excuse me." He stood up and walked around his desk, Essen stepping aside so that he would have easier access to the door.

He wasn't even through the doorway as he scanned the busy room before him, a change from what it had been several weeks ago. He noted a few familiar faces, some of them hostile while others were like Bullock. Now how was going to get their attention? If their behavior so far was anything to look back on, they weren't going to drop everything just because he called for their attention.

However, he was going to have to do this and show some kind of leadership.

"Everyone? Everyone! Listen up!" he barked out. Those closest to him in proximity jerked out of what they were doing and gaze at him in shock. Those further away paused with what they were doing to glance over at him, but then began to resume what they were doing. A bit frustrating, but it was the best response he had gotten so far. "Drop what you're doing, we have a lead on the arsons," he announced, raising his voice as loud as he could.

Some were pointedly ignoring him now and the ones whose attention he had caught were beginning to return to what they were doing before. The rookies were the only ones who were being obedient, though they were appearing uncertain as they glanced at the more veteran officers. This lack of respect frustrated the commissioner more than anything.

A sharp whistle from his side cut through the noise and the next thing Gordon knew, everyone was directing their attention towards Lieutenant Essen, the woman responsible for the whistle in question. Gordon noted in amusement that Bullock had been in the midst of biting a slice of pizza and was currently looking comedic as he stared at Essen, a string of cheese dangling from his mouth to the slice of pizza in his hand. "The commissioner needs your attention for the moment," Essen called out.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Gordon nodded, inwardly glad now that some sort of protocol was in order. "We've just gotten results back from forensics from the tavern fire. There was a fingerprint that was made on it and it has been analyzed. Fortunately, the print is one that we have on file. We have a new suspect now." He paused as he glanced through the file he held. "A Garfield Lynns."

Gordon blinked and looked back up as he swore he heard what sounded like a someone spitting out their drink in shock. Now who was taking a drink—oh it was Bullock spitting out his pizza. He was wiping his mouth, but even from here Gordon could see how wide his eyes were.

"Did you say Lynns?" the sergeant demanded as he stood up, knocking his chair to the floor. Looked like Bullock had seen a ghost or at the very least heard one.

Glancing back into the folder again, Gordon answered, "Garfield Lynns, yes."

"Well don't that beat all..." Bullock muttered in wonder, scratching the back of his neck.

"Do you know this man?" Gordon asked curiously. From the way Bullock was behaving, it was a rational conclusion he came to. Why else act spooked unless you knew the name?

"I busted Lynns a few years ago," Bullock explained, looking the commissioner in the eye. "I think he's supposed to be locked up in Blackgate or something."

"Well apparently he got out," Gordon said, looking back into the file. "His fingerprint was found on a lighter that was found at one of the arsons, the most recent to be specific. Speaking of which, what was it that you busted him for?"

Bullock was silent for a moment then he looked away. "'Member a few years ago? There were those house fires? Everyone thought it was a rash of insurance fraud, but really it was one guy. That guy was Lynns and I was the one who caught him in the act. Didn't take long to get him to admit that he had caused all the other fires. He was proud of it, the bastard."

"I want everything we have on Lynns pulled out. I want to know where he frequents, where he hides out, his entire rap sheet, everything," Gordon ordered, turning away from Bullock to address the rest of the division. "I want all available officers out there looking for him. I want him brought in tonight for questioning. Let's do this gentlemen."

Almost like magic, the place sprung back to life. Officers were getting back to work, the din of voices steadily rising, and Gordon couldn't help but feel somewhat nostalgic about it. Before he had been made commissioner, this was how the department used to be, minus that previous period of time that they were ignoring him before Essen's intervention. For once he was listened to and from all appearances obeyed.

What were the odds that the mob was involved with this increase in pace?

"I'm goin' to check in on a few things," Bullock suddenly said, reaching for his trench coat. The way the light played off the weeks old food stains on the sergeant's dress shirt almost made Gordon wince. "I know a few places this guy likes to hang 'round. I'll see if I can get lucky and see 'em there."

"Do it," Gordon replied before looking directly at the sergeant. "Take backup with you."

"Sure, uh, you two," Bullock said, looking around before focusing on the first two officers he saw. "Grab a squad car an' follow me."

Not seeing any reason to say no to Bullock's...selection method, Gordon shrugged and turned away. He trusted Bullock enough to believe that the man knew what he was doing no matter what...impression he gave off. In the meantime, he was going back to his office. Speaking of which, wasn't Essen supposed to be updating him about her investigation?

"Lieutenant?" he asked aloud, glancing at the uniformed female. "Wasn't there something you needed to inform me about?"

"New leads have come up. Need to look into them," Essen summed up.

_Well that was quick._ "Carry on then," he replied and continued walking back to his office.

* * *

Falcone carefully set the telephone on its base, then rested his extended arm on his desk. Barely a moment passed when that same arm jerked back to the enraged-looking man and swung back out, knocking the phone off the table and sending it crashing to the floor with a loud clatter. Something might have broken, but at the moment Falcone could have cared less.

"That insufferable lunatic!" the Roman bellowed as he slammed the bottom of his fist on the hard wood of the oaken desk. "When I get my hands on him..." he trailed off, seething as he did so, his fist clenching tighter to the point his fingernails were digging into his skin.

Of all the things he had expected out of this venture with Maroni, this outcome was the last thing he had wanted. A ninth man killed at the scene of a crime, two of his boys—including his nephew—in police custody, and that fire freak had the gall, _the gall_, to skip town on him. That man better keep running 'cause the moment he stopped for breath, he was a dead man.

And Maroni! That slimy rat wasn't coming out clean on this one. Once Lynns was caught and disemboweled on his desk—he'd see to that personally—the Roman was going to send the entrails to Maroni and declare all out war on him. This was _his_ city and he wasn't going to give it all up because of one of the Italian's underhanded schemes. He'd sooner give up his throne to that two-faced China rat, Loman, then let Maroni be his downfall.

Falcone knew he should've shot the plan down the moment it had been proposed. His gut had been screaming at him, yet he had given in to Maroni. There must've been some ancestor that was a used-car salesman in that guido. It was the only explanation he had to explain how he agreed with the younger man's idea.

Vengeance would come soon enough; there were bigger fish to fry at the moment. According to his informant in the PD, his nephew and surviving man were being interrogated by the cops. While Johnny was a good kid that wouldn't rat, he was also a guy with a weak constitution for pressure. It was very fortunate the more experienced officers would keep their hands off of him, leaving the greenhorns to fumble around as they tried to get information out of him. That would buy time, but eventually, if one of those pigs got fed up and began hammering the kid, Johnny would be squealing to high heaven. The same could be said for his boy. Obviously Falcone had to get his nephew out of there and arrange for an "accident" to silence the other. Not a difficult arrangement.

That just left finding Lynns. The man had vanished after his botched arson at Maroni's dive. If the speculation by the cops held any weight, that crazy bat guy had shown his mug again. Ha! So much for taking that lunatic out. Falcone couldn't help but feel quite smug at that turn of events.

But that was another problem for another they. Lynns was too dangerous to simply leave alone, even if the Roman had felt forgiving. The man's direct meetings with him and Maroni were very damaging, not to mention Lynns could turn stoolie and rat out both bosses. No man was above saving his own neck if he had to choose between himself and another man.

So just handing the fire-freak over to the cops was not an option, not that it ever was. A city-wide notice to all his boys was going out. Five million to the man that bagged that white-haired son of a bitch, dead or alive. Favors were going to be calling in at the local, state, and if need be federal levels. There was no way Lynns was getting away. Falcone was a dangerous man.

And he was going to remind everyone why.


	11. Upon Deaf Ears

The street was lined with buildings, each connected to the next until they reached an intersecting road. The design was typical of projects—three stories, few windows, rectangular in shape—and for a low-life like Garfield Lynns, this place was exactly where he belonged. As Bullock and the following police car came to a stop next to the sidewalk, the large man eyed the very address he was familiar with. He didn't bother with the people up and down the street staring right at him from the crude porches in front of each project building. There were even kids playing on the streets, their ball games halted as they watched Bullock and his rookies climb out of their cars.

As the car doors slammed, Bullock walked up towards the targeted building. Without glancing to his back-up, he called out, "You two take the back. Make sure he don't get away." He received affirmative answers and the sound of footsteps leaving him. Twirling the toothpick in his mouth with his tongue, the large man reached up and pulled out the piece of wood and flicked it away.

Bullock was quite familiar with this place. He had come to this residence when he had been trying to build a case against Lynns for those earlier arsons, hoping to find something incriminating. Unfortunately, the smuck hadn't left too much evidence lying around to pin those crimes on him, but he hadn't really expected him too. Lynns was a thug, no more, no less; but he wasn't stupid. Fortunately, there was an eyewitness that placed the arsonist in the area of one of the arsons and at the time of the crime. Lynns also had a crap alibi and ended up serving a few months in jail. While Bullock was glad no one had died in any of the fires, it was almost a shame he couldn't have added a few murder charges. Most laws saw arson as merely destruction of property and not nearly as serious as actually killing someone.

Now though, Bullock was damn certain he could get Lynns put away longer than three measly months.

Reaching the front door, he didn't bother with knocking. Lifting up his leg, he kicked the door open with a loud bang, the door slamming into something in its path. Stepping through the doorway and finding a small, darkened hallway, Bullock reached beneath his grey trenchcoat and pulled out his police-issued handgun. Cocking back the hammer, the sergeant carefully made his way to the first doorway he could find, that being a wide open, doorless entrance.

Pressing his back against the wall, Bullock did his best to look into the room beyond the crown molding of the entrance. He found a typical living room with a couch, TV, chairs, and towards the back of the place a small kitchen. Nothing out of place there.

However, those weren't the only things in the room. Leaning further out, Bullock felt himself pale as he saw red, plastic fuel cans placed all over the room with wires running from each can to a large metal barrel smack dab in the middle of the place. On top of the barrel was a small device, digital letters marking something that the sergeant couldn't make heads or tails of.

And standing right next to the barrel was a bewildered Garfield Lynns, looking at him as if he were caught with his pants down.

Swinging his body from the wall to face the man, Bullock aimed his gun right at him and shouted, "Freeze!"

"I wouldn't do that," Lynns immediately said, holding a hand up between them to try to placate the sergeant. Despite the situation, the white-haired man sounded calm. "You hit one of these cans and the whole building goes boom."

"Yeah, like I couldn't tell," Bullock snapped with annoyance. "Now stop what you're doin' and get your scrawny ass over here. You're under arrest, Punk."

Lynns scowled at that before he raised his other hand, one that had remained hidden from the large man's sight. Getting a good look at it, Bullock could easily put two and two together—a detonator. The prick had the nerve to smirk at him as his thumb rested on the trigger button. "No Pig, I don't think so," the white-haired man replied smugly.

"Put that thing down right now!" Bullock demanded, watching as the perp slid a foot back, inching his way to a doorway on the other side of the room. "What part of that don't you understand?"

"Oh, I understood it," Lynns replied as he took another step back. "And I also understand the concept of a ticking time bomb."

"A what?!" Bullock exclaimed as his eyes shot down to the device on the barrel. At that same moment, Lynns pushed the trigger button, causing the screen on the device to flash for a second before the number 20 appeared.

And then it went to 19.

Looking back up, Bullock saw the backside of Lynns disappearing out the doorway, causing him to growl in annoyance. Looking back down to the timer and seeing 17, the sergeant turned around and shot down the hallway and out the front door. "Everyone, get down!" he bellowed as loud as he could before running around his car and diving to the ground behind it. Just as he covered his head with his arms, Hell itself erupted, a thunderous roar ringing out as fire flew out in all directions. Though Bullock didn't see the fireworks, he sure as Hell felt the intense heat and violent tremor it caused.

He kept himself down for several moments until he was sure the immediate danger was over. Slowly, the sergeant pushed himself onto his knees and looked over the hood of his car to look at the damage. He wasn't the least bit surprised to see a large hole where the front door used to be. Miraculously the upper floors weren't blown out, but there were burnt marks all around the windows. Smoke prevented Bullock from seeing further into the building, but he could very well imagine there was a fire burning in there somewhere.

He was slightly surprised more of the building front wasn't blown out. But then, perhaps the bomb hadn't been made for that kind of destruction. Lynns had a thing for fire, so this could have been a fire bomb rather than your run-of-the-mill incendiary. Yeah, that sounded more like that prick.

Getting onto his feet, Bullock opened the driver's door of his car and climbed in while leaving the door open. Grabbing his radio, he pushed down the call button and said, "Dispatch, this is Bullock. I need fire engines and ambulances at my location. I repeat, fire engines and ambulances at my location."

Releasing the button, Bullock waited for an answer. "_Roger that, Sergeant,_" came the response. "_What went wrong?_"

"A freakin' bomb," the large man said as he glared out his passenger window and towards the ruined building. It was then he remembered he hadn't come here alone. "Hang on a sec," he said before he changed frequencies. "Ramirez, Jones, you copy?" Waiting a moment, he grew impatient and added, "Answer me, Rooks. You guys okay or what?"

There was a static before he heard, _"This is Jones, we're okay."_ Bullock let out a sigh of relief at that. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath that entire time. "_We're shakin' up, but we'll live._"

"Did you see the perp?" Bullock questioned immediately. "I saw him in the building and he made a run for it."

Another silence before, _"Negative, we never saw him leave the building."_

Bullock growled at that. "You and Ramirez sit tight, alright?" Not waiting for an answer, he switched back to dispatch. "Dispatch, I want all units on my location. the perp is loose and I want him hunted down. Send out everyone."

_"Everyone? What do you mean everyone?"_

"EVERYONE! I want cops, SWAT, freakin' meter-maids, _everyone_!"

_"Okay, okay, we're sending them._"

Bullock tossed the radio onto the car seat and then slammed his door shut. Sticking his car key into the ignition, he revved the engine before taking off down the street.

Lynns got out of that building and was somewhere in the streets. Anyone with half a brain did not set up explosives in their home and had no way out; he just didn't take the front or back doors was all. A side window, a secret passage in the basement, something. Bullock would find out how when he caught the prick and he would catch him. If he had to tear this city apart to do it, he would.

* * *

Lynns tore down the dirty alleyway, crashing through haphazardly-placed trashcans, causing the metal cans to fall to the ground and spilling out their contents. The white-haired man could care less about that; there were more pressing matters at hand. Reaching the mouth of the alley, he slowed down until he came to a stop, pressing his back against one of the walls and peeking out.

Upon seeing the normal hustle and bustle of street life sans police cars, Lynns shot out of the alleyway and into the street. Car horns blared loudly as he dodged oncoming traffic, drivers slamming on their breaks to avoid hitting him. He didn't let that stop him as he reached the sidewalk and darted into another alley.

_Damn that pig, damn him to Hell._ Lynns hadn't been expecting that. He had planned for having quite a bit of time to leave his house, but the cop's entrance had forced him to accelerate everything. Even now, the wails of police sirens echoing throughout the city set his teeth on edge. He just had to make it, he had to. He wouldn't accept anything less.

Coming up to a gate, Lynns leapt at the wired barrier, grabbing the metal bar at the top as his feet found footholds. Pulling himself up, the arsonist climbed the fence and rolled over the top, falling to ground once he released his hold and landed on his feet. Not giving himself a second to recover, he took off once more until he reached the other end of the alley.

Mimicking his previous actions, Lynns took note of where he was and found himself a good ten blocks away from where he was heading. Unfortunately, there wasn't another alleyway directly on the other side of the street either. Once he would get to the other side, he'd have to walk right out in the open before reaching another alley to disappear into. _Damn it._

A screeching sound reached the white-haired man's ears, causing him to jerk his head to look down the way he came. There he saw a cop car parked, an officer opening the car door and looking right at him. Lynns couldn't quite hear what the cop said, but he could only imagine it was something along the lines of "I found him."

Growling, Lynns ran into the street, this time hitting it without traffic. He reached the other side quickly and turned right, continuing running despite the odd looks he was receiving from the nearby people. Reaching the desired alley, he dashed into it and kept on running, his heart pounding in his chest as his breathing became labored. Unlike the previous alleyways he had been using, this one came to an abrupt end, turning to the right. At the speed he was going, Lynns ran right into the wall, bracing his arms in front of him in an attempt to stop. Twisting his body to his right, he looked behind him to see if he was still being followed. It was only for that reason that he saw something moving towards the top of his sight.

Looking straight up—_there!_—movement. There was someone or something on the roof of the building and if it was who he thought it was, the better. With a spring in his step, he once more took off as fast as he could to the alley's exit.

Bursting out of the alley, Lynns took a left and raced down the sidewalk. Unfortunately, this street had a lot more people on it and the white-haired man found himself weaving between all of the bodies. That proved to be too much effort for him and he shouted, "Out of my way!" just as he plowed over a young couple. The youths let out startled cries of surprise as they were pushed to the ground, Lynns continuing his running.

And that was when things took a turn for the worse. Up ahead was a police car and there was no way the cop inside it missed him barreling over that couple. Considering that his features were quite distinguishable, that gave the officer all he needed to run his car onto the sidewalk and stop it with its backside in the road, an attempt to barricade him.

Face twisting with anger, Lynns raced towards the car and jumped onto the hood, his backside sliding over the smooth surface and carrying him to the other side of the car. Landing on his feet, Lynns kept running even as both front car doors swung open and policemen climbed out.

The white-haired man didn't get too far after that as he heard the two officers shout simultaneously, "Freeze!" The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he came to a stop, raising his hands up in the air just as he was ordered to. _No, not now._

Tilting his head to a side, he spied out of the corner of his eye the two officers, one crouching behind the hood of the car while the other took cover behind the open car door. There was no way he could pull out his own gun and shoot them both, not without ending up dead on the sidewalk. That didn't even take to account that dark shadow watching him, wherever he was.

Gritting his teeth, he turned to look straight ahead, stopping halfway as he stared at the building next to him. The door was cracked opened and had a small set of stairs leading up to it. Even better, there was a solid stone railing that covered the steps.

Lynns acted immediately, diving behind the railing as shots were fired. Scrambling on his hands and feet, he made his way to the door and swung it open. It was then the arsonist climbed to his feet and slammed the door closed behind him. He had bought himself some time, but he needed to be quick about it. No doubt the Bat would be in the building momentarily, but he could work with it.

He just needed a light.

* * *

Officer Kurt Fowle raced down through the Gotham streets, moving around cars and shooting through traffic lights. The wail of his police siren blared over head, the flashing of red and blue lights sending drivers steering out of his way, though there were still those few that wouldn't give up their lane. If he hadn't been in such a hurry, he would've considered giving them a ticket.

The young, blond-haired man had gotten the call moments ago that Bullock had lost Garfield Lynns and the perp was loose in the streets. Everyone was getting called in to find the guy and that included him. Unfortunately, he wasn't anywhere near the address he was given, thus his frantic race through the streets.

The radio wasn't doing him any favors either as it reported what was going down.

_"I got 'em, I got 'em!"_ an officer yelled through the speakers. _"He's running through traffic on Hopkins! Just went into an alleyI"_

Dispatch said something then, clearly addressing the excited officer. Fowle didn't bother paying attention as he shot through another intersection, the blaring of car horns sounding off in his ears as he barely avoided being hit by crossing traffic. _"Bastard's hopped a fence and is running across Chesapeake,"_ the radio said.

Damn, Chesapeake was a good twenty minutes away and that was without traffic. Pressing his foot harder onto the accelerator, he hoped he could get there quicker.

_"This is Unit #36, subject spotted on Roosevelt Drive,"_ the radio went off again. _"He's out in the open, I repeat, he's out in the open."_

Fowle waited with baited breath as he listened through Dispatch's orders. Making a wild turn at another intersection, his car raced down the street, bringing him closer to Roosevelt Drive. There were random reports coming in, none of which interested the young man; he wanted to hear what was going on with the suspect. He nearly ran over an elderly couple crossing the street out of frustration, swerving around them at the last moment to save his conscience a bunch of sleepless nights.

And then it came in. _"Suspect has escaped into a building. We need back-up right now."_

_"Copy that, Unit #36. Form a perimeter and wait for back-up. What's the address?"_

_"We're at 311 Roosevelt, I repeat, 311 Roosevelt."_

_"Copy that." _A moment later, _"All units, report to 311 Roosevelt Drive, I repeat, 311 Roosevelt Drive."_

Fowle grabbed his mike and replied, "Copy that," and then tossed the mike over to the passenger seat. The streets became a blur after that as he rushed towards the location. It wasn't very long before he ran into a couple of other police cars flying down the road as well, their lights flashing and sirens wailing. He joined the convoy and followed them until they reached Roosevelt.

It was there they found a lot more activity. Fire engines were stationed around a burning building, firing torrents of water at it to tame the flames. Coming to a stop, Fowle stared at the spectacle as he slowly climbed out of his car.

An arsonist starting a fire, what were the odds?

* * *

_Almost there, keep going. You're almost there._ Lynns could feel his lungs screaming in his chest. He was running too much after years of not having to. He needed to join a gym or something in the near future in the event he had to run around the city again.

The cops were off his trail for the time being—a burning building had that effect. With the pigs busy trying to not to wet themselves and wait for the firemen, that had provided the arsonist all the time he needed to flee the scene and get to his destination. Now, if only the Bat was still tailing...

Turning a corner, Lynns stumbled over another trashcan, kicking the metal can down the dirty alleyway as he ignored the racket it caused. He slowed to a stop though, when he recognized where he was. Not paying any mind to the building to his left, he focused on an elevated dock connected to the building on his right. There was a large, metal, sliding door next to a sign, the sign painted with a large 5 on it. Climbing onto the dock, he grabbed the handle on the door and pulled with all of his might.

With a groan, the door slid open, though Lynns didn't open it the whole way. He left enough space for a man to slide on in. Doing so, he left it open; if the Bat had lost his trail, this would be a sure sign of where the white-haired man had gone. After all, he had left a rather messy trail behind him starting a couple blocks away from his latest arson. Thinking back to that, he felt sadness as to not being able to watch it. Dancing flames were always a sight to behold and appreciate.

Shaking off the reverie, Lynns got back into action. The warehouse he found himself in was sparsely filled. A few crates here, some chains hanging from the ceiling there, a few toolboxes on the wall nowhere near where he wanted to be. Ignoring the sights, he made his way to the manager's office, a section of the building that was cordoned off by walls. Reaching the door there, he swung it open before slamming it shut behind him.

The office stretched out in front of him, the door being in one of the room's corners. It was barren besides a few left over pieces of furniture. A rotting desk and the frame of a metal chair were in the far corner of the room along with a long folding table on the other side. Again, he wasn't interested in that stuff as much as he was in the items sitting right in the middle of the room.

Reaching it, Lynns picked a twin set of brown tanks by two connected straps. Maneuvering it behind him, he slipped his arms between the straps until they laid on his shoulders comfortably. Hanging from the the right tank was a hose, which connected to a long shaft. Sticking out of the shaft were two hand grips, one of which had a trigger in front of it. Grabbing the shaft, he moved his hands to take hold of the grips and angled it across his body diagonally. Satisfied that he was ready, Lynns faced the front door of the room and waited.

There was only one entrance that he knew of into this room, that being the door. There weren't any side doors or windows that the Bat-freak could use to surprise him. He had spent hours looking for this place, the perfect set-up to prove he was better. All that needed to happen was for the Bat to show up. Then his flamethrower would handle the rest.

Minutes passed by with only the sounds of the building groaning—a combination of water rushing through ancient pipes and poorly constructed walls. This warehouse had not aged well and one could say that Lynns was doing the city a favor by burning it down. They could then build something more useful in its place, to which he could burn again. Heh, these city planners. All they ever did was give him targets for his favorite pastime. Why—

A loud groaning occurred behind him, followed by the loud snapping of wood and sheetrock. Whipping around, Lynns froze with wide eyes as he saw the crouched shape of the Bat-Man, falling pieces of the roof landing around him with a cloud of dust lightly covering him.

His following reaction was instant. "Die, you freak, die!" he screamed as he pointed the nozzle of his flamethrower and pulled the trigger, a stream of fire flying at his dark target. He continued screaming as he waved the weapon slowly from side to side, sure to engulf that entire side of the room with bright flames.

As Lynns released the trigger, the stream of flames coming to an end, his blue eyes glowed with excitement as he watched the dancing blaze before him. Beautiful...it was just simply...beautiful. He could watch it for hours...

And then it happened. Something began to emerge from the flames. It was small at first, but grew larger with every passing second. It wasn't until he saw the enrage face of the Bat that he realized what it was. The cloak was gone, only shreds of it remaining. With it gone, the armored body of the Bat was in clear view and it was heading right at him. Hands balled into fists were held out at his sides and his bared teeth made him look like an animal, one that wanted to rip him apart until there was nothing left.

With a roar, the Bat-Man leapt at him, his shoulder ramming into Lynns' stomach, arms wrapping around the white-haired man's body. The force of the tackle sent the two crashing to the ground, the fuel tanks uncomfortable digging into Lynns' back. A mix cry of pain and fear tore from his mouth as he hit the floor. The sound of the flamethrower shaft scuttling on the floor only added to his dread.

Lynns grabbed at the Bat-Man's shoulders, trying to shove him off, but the monster was not having any of that. With one arm, the Bat held off the white-haired man's arms and struck him with a devastating punch to the face. Due to the tanks underneath him, Lynns' head was hovering over the floor and not against it, so when the punch landed, Lynns' head shot backwards and connected with the floor, causing stars to explode throughout his vision.

But Lynns was like a cornered animal and he wasn't about to be taken out so quickly. He kicked wildly, yet ineffectively with his legs, banging his fists against the Bat, but with no discernable effect. Another fist came flying at him, but due to Lynns squirming so much beneath the dark figure, the punch just nicked his shoulder and smashed into the top of one of the fuel tanks he wore.

Because of that, the Bat-Man was off balance, which allowed Lynns to squirm to the side of the Bat and push it off of him. With the monster off of him, the arsonist rolled onto his stomach and grabbed the hose of his flamethrower and pulled it towards him. The shaft came sliding towards him, something that calmed the fear that was racing through him.

However, before he could snatch the weapon back into his hands, the Bat-Man slammed his foot into the side of the white-haired man's face, dazing him as a spray of spit and blood launched from his mouth. Shaking off the daze, the arsonist looked towards the Bat and saw him on all fours, his backside towards him. One of his legs was lifted up and bent, ready to send another kick at him. Immediately, Lynns jerked back, rolling onto his side and narrowly avoiding the kick aimed at his face. Grasping the hose again, he jerked it and the shaft slid right into him. Grabbing it, he scrambled onto his knees, just as the Bat-Man was getting to his feet.

Leveling the nozzle at his target, Lynns quickly grabbed the front handgrip and pulled the trigger, firing another point-blank fire stream at the Bat. The last he saw of him, the Bat-Man had raised his arms up to cover his face from the flames.

Not wasting time, Lynns got back to his feet and raced for the door, ramming it with his shoulder and shattering the wooden barrier. As he stumbled into the wide open space of the warehouse, the arsonist turned around and fired another blast of fire into the office in an attempt to keep the Bat trapped in there. Though, considering that monster had leapt at him through flames already, there was some doubt in Lynns' mind that would hold him.

He had to get out of here, now, no more delay. This Bat-Man was getting stronger with every encounter he had. He...he had to get out of Gotham. No, lay low for a bit, then get out. There was too much heat on him not to. Dashing towards the door, he frantically pulled off the straps of the fuel tanks and dropped his weapon to the floor with a loud clang. He was out the door a moment later.

* * *

The inferno was tearing the building apart, firefighters doing their best to put out the blaze but to almost no avail. They were doing their best at this point to contain the blaze before it spread to the neighboring buildings. No one wanted this fire to spread any further.

None of this mattered to Bullock who had only one thing on his mind. "Where the HELL is Lynns?!"

If he was still in that building, he was toast. Literally toast. Bullock knew in his gut that Lynns was too wily for that to happen, at least not on purpose. One could only hope that a last second accident had trapped Lynns in there, but Bullock's luck wasn't that good. No, Lynns was still out there, he could feel it.

_"All units come in, all units come in, there are reports of another fire in the vicinity of 311 Roosevelt. Request units to investigate. I repeat, request units to investigate."_

He knew it. Another fire and not too far from here? Could only be Lynns.

"Bullock respondin', where the Hell is it?" he demanded into the radio as he snatched the receiver up.

_"Two blocks northwest of 311 Roosevelt. It's 270 Franklin Boulevard. I repeat, 270 Franklin Boulevard."_

"Copy that, I'm going in," Bullock reported. "You guys!" he called out to the nearest officers. "Did you catch any of that? Come with me, we're gonna check it out!"

* * *

The door open with a loud groan. Beyond it was a staircase that led underground—who knew why. Lynns wasn't going to question it though. He really couldn't right now.

Another warehouse. Lynns was starting to get sick of them, but this one would have to be his sanctuary for the time being. The Bat had to be hurting back in the one he had left him in. And despite hearing the approaching sounds of the police, there was no way they would be able to follow him. Sure they would check out the surrounding area, but it would take awhile for them to reach this place. By then, he'd be gone.

His breath came out in a thick cloud as he panted. For some reason, this place was cold. What was it, some kind of meat locker? Bah, he'd wouldn't worry about that. Descending the stairs, he made his way down carefully due to the lack of light. The only light he had access to was the amount pouring in from the doorway behind him and that wasn't much at all. Lights on in one of many abandoned warehouses was like putting a red flag for anyone with half a brain, even policemen.

The clangs of his footsteps landing on metal step echoed in his ears, his arms unconsciously raising up to rub the other. It seemed the further he went down, the colder it got. Perhaps he should turn around?

It was then he reached the bottom and there he found a large metal door. Letting out a deep breath, he approached the door and grabbed the handle, pleasantly surprised that it swung open when he pulled on it. Walking in, he found himself standing in a large refrigerator.

Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with...things that he couldn't put a name to. Large and small metal boxes littered the place, some placed on top of one another and others that weren't. In one corner there were a cluttering of large drums, something that brought to his mind the thought of sweet oil drums that could be used for beautiful flames.

He wasn't kidding about how crowded and boxed in the place was; he almost tripped over something that wasn't a box or a drum. It was something oblong and covered by a cloth. It barely stuck out from the dull grayness that seemed to be the only color scheme in here.

Curious, Lynns bent down and uncovered what he almost tripped on. What he found confused him. Standing up with the oblong object in hand, he wondered what the hell a snow globe doing in a place like this. There was a small figurine of a woman in there and...wait. What was that? Something stuck out at the bottom. What was that? It...it looked like a key. Was he supposed to turn it?

Cautiously, he turned it a few times and when he let it go, a soft yet haunting melody began to play and the small figurine began to turn, spinning around in slow yet somehow graceful circles. He shook it slightly and watched as small, fake snowflakes danced all about the figurine. It was...captivating somehow, even for someone like him whose passions were always burning.

Eventually, he set the globe on a nearby crate, taking a step away to give it space. He wasn't sure why he did that, but it just felt—

"That belongs to me."

Lynns whipped around at the stern, dispassionate voice. There, standing a few feet away was a very large man. At least he thought it was a man since he saw a bald head, though it was surrounded by a tall, glass bowl. The outfit he wore was just as drab as the freezer he was in, a grey-covered torso with blacks and blues covering his arms and legs.

The most color this man had was his eyes, which were covered with red-lensed glasses. It gave him a rather menacing look, as if he were angry.

"What the hell are you?" Lynns gasped as he backed away. The back of his legs came into contact with the crate behind him, causing it to rattle the snow globe.

"Step away from my music box," the man growled, his voice sounding altered, as if it were coming out of a speaker.

"Yeah, sure, anything you say," Lynns immediately replied, raising his arms up to indicate he meant no harm. Slowly, he worked his way towards the door, one small step at a time. He didn't like the look of this guy. He had already dealt with a crazy bat tonight, he didn't need a robot man too. "I'll just be on my way, no worries."

The man stared at him before chillingly saying, "No, you won't."

Lynns stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"I know you," the man stated, his body facing the arsonist. "I know what you do. Those actions carry a price that you have yet to bear...until now."

"What the...what are you talking about?"

"Do not feign innocence with me, Garfield Lynns."

The blood in Lynns' veins froze. "How...how do you-"

"I've told you, I know all about you." It was then the man raised an arm up, revealing a large, bulky gun. That immediately got the arsonist's attention.

"Hey man, there's no need for that," Lynns said, not liking the sight of that gun at all. "We can work something—"

"Out? No, I believe we won't be. The icy hand of justice falls upon you, Lynns."

A blinding light fired from the barrel of the gun, coupled with a high-pitch blare, and the last thing Lynns saw was the distorted sight of ice blinding him. His screams fell upon deaf ears.

* * *

Here's a couple things that went into this chapter. The scene were Bullock shouts "Everyone!" came from a scene in _Leon: The Professional_. In it, a corrupt DEA agent was ordering an entire precinct to capture a hitman and shouted it just like that. That DEA agent was played by a guy named Gary Oldman, ironically enough.

The scene where Batman leaps out of the flames at Lynns was also inspired by the comic, specifically from a panel in the _Knightfall_ volume. Always liked that image ever since I first saw it as a kid.


	12. God Help Us Both

It was cold. He was at home in the cold. It brought him peace in an otherwise tormented life. He had been that way as a little boy, living in that snowy little village; oh, how he missed that village. Unfortunately, his work had forced him to come to this city and upend his entire world.

It had been difficult to find this place. Due to his limitations, he couldn't walk the streets for fear of unsettling the other citizens nor would an inquiry to a residence locator be of any help. He was on his own in this solitary world.

And he had carved out a niche just for him. For a time he allowed everything around him to go on by, not the least bit worried of how it would affect him. That all changed recently. The dirty and corrupt streets of Gotham had been disturbed, sending out a shockwave that even he had felt. It was time that he left this meager existence of his and help this wave of change.

And then a door opened.

He kept still, allowing the comforting cold air to fill his lungs before he exhaled it silently. Loud footsteps echoed throughout the tiny room, growing louder as the source grew closer.

A man appeared in his sight then. The man was large—much larger than he had ever been—and his white hair seemed to blend in with the dreariness of the room. For someone so youthful, that hair color was peculiar. Yet, he knew the description of a man with that hair color, one that had been quite active as of late. Though he had secluded himself from society, it did not mean he stayed ignorant of the world around him. He made it a point to be well-informed. Meanwhile, the white-haired man continued to look about until he stumbled upon something, bent down to pick it up, and stared at it. It was a curious sight.

But then the white-haired man fiddled with something and a familiar tune began. He stiffened at it. How...how dare he touch what was not his?!

He tightened his hand over the handle of his weapon and stood up. He wasn't angry, never could he say he felt that. He couldn't feel at all. That was why his words were dispassioned as he said, "That belongs to me."

The man jerked around and stared at him in astonishment. "What the hell are you?"

He ignored the questions and instead ordered, "Step away from my music box."

The man shot his arms up, an attempt to pacify him. He began stepping away from the music box, much to his relief. "Yeah, sure, anything you say. I'll just be on my way, no worries."

Is that what he thought would happen? How naive. "No, you won't."

The man stopped in his tracks, taken back by the statement. "What?"

"I know you," he informed him. It was the least he could do. "I know what you do. Those actions carry a price that you have yet to bear...until now."

"What the...what are you talking about?"

So he wished to play innocent? That would not do; no, not at all. "Do not feign innocence with me, Garfield Lynns."

Lynns was startled by that declaration. "How...how do you—"

"I've told you, I know all about you." At this, he rose his gun and aimed it right at the man. This immediately got Lynns' attention.

"Hey man, there's no need for that. We can work something—"

"Out?" How dare this man think he could talk his way out of this. Had that worked for all the other people he had harmed throughout his life? He thought not. "No, I believe we won't be."

This was it, the moment of change was upon him. If he could feel at all, he would have said he felt excited. Instead, he performed just as he was expected to. "The icy hand of justice falls upon you, Lynns."

And then he pulled the trigger. A blue beam fired from the barrel of his weapon and hit Lynns right in the chest. A high-pitched blare filled the room, dulling after a second. At the point where the beam made contact, ice formed and expanded, covering the man. He raised the beam to touch Lynns' face before dropping it down to his feet. The hardening of ice reached his ears over the roar of his gun, soon becoming the only sound once he released the trigger of his ice gun.

Before him, Lynns stood frozen, his arms held out wide and high in the air. A layer of ice extended all over his body, forming a nearly human shape had the space between his legs and the one between his arms and head had not been filled. His face was twisted with fear, forever silenced. Yes, a befitting fate.

He looked down at the ice gun and analyzed it. Its performance had been just as he concluded. A new day was dawning on Gotham, one that the criminal element would not view with smug indifference.

The Ice Man had arrived.

* * *

Harvey Bullock had seen many a strange thing while working as a detective. Usually it involved a gruesome murder, such as this one guy being impaled with a meat hook and hanging upside down from a chimney. This though, this one took the cake.

The sergeant was staring at Garfield Lynns, or at least what was supposed to be him. He recognized the man's features, though the scream his face was frozen in was pretty creepy. In fact, his entire body was frozen in a large chunk of ice. He'd never seen anything like it!

Still, he had a job to do and that was figure out what went down. One thing he could tell was that Lynns had his arms raised when this happened. Those limbs were held away from his body and a little higher than shoulder height. He had also been standing, so perhaps he was being held up?

"How the hell does a man get frozen solid?" a nearby policeman asked out loud, staring at the Lynns-icle. A quick glance to the man's name tag on his uniform labeled him Pauling.

"That's what we're here to find out," Bullock replied, a fresh toothpick in his mouth rising and falling as he spoke. With his tongue, he pushed it to the corner of his mouth, mostly to get it out of his way. He had a feeling he was gonna have to be talking quite a bit.

Another officer approached, this one named O'Shane. The sergeant knew that because he had worked with him in the past—the distant past. One tended not to work with another person after having a gun put in their face after all. "Know what I think?" the man asked out loud, not really expecting an answer. "I think this was the work of that Bat-guy."

"Ya think?" Bullock replied, looking at the man from around Lynns. "What makes ya think that?"

O'Shane snorted. "He's been killing people left and right, right? Who knows what else he's capable of."

Bullock stared at the man for a moment. "So what you're tellin' me is, because you don't know what he's capable of means he's capable of doin' this?"

O'Shane nodded his head in answer. "Yeah." With the way he said that, the guy made it sound like it was the most obvious answer around.

Now, he wasn't the Bat-freak's biggest fan, but for the first time Bullock found himself in the position of defending the guy. Left a foul taste in his mouth to be honest, but even Bullock had his limits. "So by that thinking, cuz I don't know what you're capable of, you could've froze this guy, right?"

O'Shane froze at that, pun definitely intended. Heh, he shoulda been a comedian. "Hey Harvey, you know me. You know I ain't capable of doing this."

Bullock shrugged his large shoulders in response. "I didn't think you were capable of showin' up at my doorstep to kick my ass either, but you proved me wrong there. So what else can I be wrong about? For all I know, you got some ice-makin' machine hidden at your house and you kidnapped Lynns here while he was runnin'. You took him to your place, froze him, then dragged him over here and left him for us to find."

"Okay Harvey, that doesn't make any sense," Pauling interjected. "Why would a person do all of that when there was a city-wide manhunt for this guy?"

"Excellent question, Rook," Bullock answered. "Cuz no sane person would do all that. Ya ask me, I think this is somethin' completely new."

"I'm not a rookie," Pauling grumbled to himself. "Been on the force for seven years."

To that, Bullock didn't give a care; neither did O'Shane apparently. He was still a bit butthurt from being suspected. "You know Bullock, if you treated people better, you'd be a hell of a lot happier," O'Shane spat out heatedly.

"I would?" Bullock sounded baffled by that. "But I'm already the most handsome guy at the precinct. How could I be any happier?" Both men stared at him flabbergasted by his quip. With a smirk, the sergeant continued, "Oh wait, I think I know what you mean. If I were nicer, people would help get me things, kinda like that watch of yours, O'Shane. That's a pretty good watch there; a bit expensive for someone on a cop's salary."

Immediately, O'Shane began pulling his sleeve over his watch in a poor attempt to hide it. The man looked pissed off, but Bullock didn't care. They hadn't been friends for a long time after all. "I've got a better idea. You two need to go do police work—ya know, investigate the crime scene. I want your reports on my desk by noon, got it?" Then without sparing another glance, Bullock walked around the frozen Lynns-cube and got out of that meat locker. He was cold, ya know? Even all the fat he had on him couldn't keep him warm in there.

* * *

Another day, another crime scene. Lois had to say each one was starting to look the same. Ever since the emergence of the Batman—that's right, no hyphen this time; one had to stay ahead of the pack after all—the media had been crawling over any crime scene that had the remote chance of the vigilante appearing. By now everyone had figured out it was the mass arsons that been been burning Gotham to the ground, thus why this abandoned warehouse was receiving more attention than it had in its entire lifespan.

To be honest though, Lois was getting bored with it.

Right now she had her next article on her computer damn near finished when her editor sent her out here. It was an opinion piece, one of the rare ones she ever did and she was quite proud of it. This Batman guy had given her so much material this last week that she felt she owed him a spot in her acceptance speech when she won her Pulitzer. Heck, she'd give him a big sloppy kiss if he ever showed up.

At least Vale was busy taking her pictures God knows where. Kept that redhead out of her hair. Still, hanging around this police barricade with all the other media sharks wasn't going to get her a scoop. She needed to get into that building and find out what was going on.

Glancing to her left and then her right, the dark-haired woman didn't see anyone keeping a close eye on her. All the cops were acting like busy little bees as they walked to and fro around the place. Feeling as if they were inviting her to walk on in, she did, ducking beneath the wooden barricade and casually walking across the street and to the alleyway where most of the investigators would disappear and re-emerge from. The clacking of her high-heeled shoes reached her ears with every confident step she took.

Grimacing at the conditions of the alley when she reached it, Lois pressed on, seeing a wide open metal door atop a dock. So this was how everyone was getting into the building. Reaching into her purse, Lois gripped her recorder, her fingers finding the record button and waited for the right moment to start.

It was then a large, disheveled man walked out of the building, looking a bit blue. _Interesting._ Coming to a stop, Lois waited for the man to climb down from the dock and begin walking towards the mouth of the alleyway, right where she was waiting. Oh, she loved it when a story came crawling to her.

Just as the man reached her, Lois hit the record button and pulled her empty hand out of her purse, grabbing the purse strap with her other hand. "Officer? Officer?" she called out to him, raising her free arm up into the air to get his attention. "Can I have a word with you?"

The large man came to a stop and turned to her, his eyes giving her a generous once-over. "Hey there, little lady, what can I do to ya?"

_Ugh, Pig._ Just what she needed, another horndog policeman. She knew she looked good, but that wasn't an excuse to have perverts eye her up, especially ones that looked as if they treated hot water and soap as pestilences. And could the guy at least bother to shave himself? His five o'clock shadow had crossed into a poor excuse for a beard a long ago. "Nothing that a few batteries can't solve," she replied, letting a fair amount of snark drip from her voice.

That didn't deter the officer in the least. "If you really thought that, you wouldn't be over here, now would ya?"

"Believe me, Officer, there's nothing I wouldn't prefer doing right now."

The man narrowed his eyes at that. "It ain't officer, Lady; it's Sergeant. Sergeant Bullock."

Lois stared at the man. _This_ is what passed for a police sergeant these days? For the love of...

The dark-haired woman shook her head. Why was she surprised? This was Gotham—anything was possible. "Alright, _Sergeant_, mind telling me what's going on here?"

"No can do," Bullock replied smugly. "There's an unwritten rule at the precinct—wanna hear it?" Without even pausing to let her answer, he said, "No talkin' to the press."

"Is that so? Then what do you call this?"

Shrugging his shoulders, the sergeant answered, "I'm having a _conversation_ with the press. Big difference. Not to mention that's _off the record._"

Lois blinked her eyes owlishly at that. Well if that didn't beat all. This guy was smarter than he looked, not that you would've assumed he had an iota of intelligence. It wasn't too hard leaping over an already low bar of expectations. "Fine then, off the record. What happened?"

"Sorry, Lady, another time, another place. I'm needed elsewhere." Brushing her off, Bullock chalantly walked off, whistling, _whistling,_ some damn, happy tune. It wasn't often that Lois felt ire towards someone, but for this guy, oh yeah, he deserved every inch of her scorn. Damn it, where was Gordon when she wanted him?

Glaring daggers at the back of the man, she soon realized where he was going. Over by a forensic's van stood Jim Gordon, his trench coat flapping in the slight breeze that just happened to blow by. _Well, speak of the devil and he shall appear._ Straightening out her posture, Lois walked after the sergeant, keeping a sharp eye on him. Oh yeah, that guy was definitely heading towards Gordon. Perfect. She could salvage something out of this yet.

As Bullock reached Gordon, the two men moved behind the van, disappearing from sight. Lois quickened her pace, wincing slightly from the louder clacks of her high-heels. Hopefully that wouldn't scare the two men off. As she reached the van, she began carefully stepping towards the far corner of it, hoping to get closer to the two men. Due to the rising sun off at the horizon, she could see the men's two shadows extending out from the other side. All she had to do was get close enough to hear them and—

"—Com'mish, weirdest thing I've ever seen," Bullock was saying.

"I don't like the sound of that," Gordon replied.

"Then don't ask questions you know you're not gonna like the answers for."

Lois rolled her eyes at that. _Well, duh._

"Just tell me what we've got."

"Well, we've got Lynns."

_Lynns? Who's Lynns?_ Lois wondered. Was this a suspect or something? Perhaps the arsonist? How the heck had the police kept that quiet?

"That's great!" Gordon proclaimed eagerly. "Is he on his way to the GCPD?"

"That's the thing, Com'mish." At this Bullock sounded wryly. "Unless you plan on putting him in a glass of Jack, he ain't going nowhere."

A small silence passed. "Explain that."

"The guy's frozen, as in he's trapped in a giant ice cube. Looks like he was screaming when it happened. So while we do have him, I doubt he's ever gonna see trial."

Another silence. "Just what I need, another unsolved crime."

"Hey, we solved all the arsons, we just won't be havin' a trial is all."

_No kidding._ Lois had to admit she wasn't too surprised by that. Strange things happened in Gotham all the time, though this must've been a first to have a suspect frozen alive. Was this frontpage material or tabloid fodder?

"You don't understand, I have meeting with the mayor. I'm not expecting it to be pleasant."

Lois heard Bullock suck in air, wincing for the man. "Damn, that ain't good."

"Thanks for the encouragement," Gordon said sardonically.

"No prob, Com'mish."

Lois stopped listening at this point as she slowly began tiptoeing away. She had all she needed here for the beginning of her story; she just needed to get in touch with her contact in the Mayor's office to get the dirt on what would go down between Mayor Hill and Gordon. From the way the Commissioner sounded, he didn't seem eager for the meeting.

Her opinion piece would have to wait. Once she got this story all wrapped up, she could update it and be assured of leading the pack, just the way she liked it. Now where the hell was Vale? They had places to be and they weren't here.

* * *

Gordon never really liked going to City Hall. It was such a cold place and not in temperature. It was a very unfeeling place and if you weren't careful you would be stepped all over and left to wither and die. If you didn't move by the pace that was set within, or uphold the protocols that were so prestigious that they were ignored and dismissed on a regular basis, you weren't going to last long there.

Nevertheless, he had to be here. He couldn't ignore a summons from Mayor Hamilton Hill. Not only was it Hill who made him the current commissioner, he was also higher on the ladder than he was, which made the man Gordon's boss.

Squaring his shoulders, the commissioner marched up the steps into City Hall, keeping a brisk pace as he entered the political sanctum. Immediately he was greeted with the sight of decades' worth of excess and corruption. Marble tiles were set into the floor, marble columns lining the walls and held up the overhead balconies that belonged to the second floor, and a massive staircase that was grand in its sculpture laid dead ahead, right behind the regal information desk.

Gordon didn't need to stop to asked for information or directions; he knew where he needed to go. At this point in time he knew it by heart already. The only thing that was within his control at the moment was the choice to take the stairs or go for the elevator that had kept the antiquated look of belonging to an era long since past.

Just like those elevators, everything you found here were living fossils that were never going to relinquish what little they actually had here. Power was a strong siren call that very few individuals in the whole world could ignore.

As for his choice, he picked the stairs. He may be a smoker, sure, but he kept up with his physical fitness as much as he could. As the commissioner, it wasn't often that he had the chance to exercise, at least not as much as he used to, so he had to take every opportunity that was presented to him, even if it was a climb up a set of stairs. It was much more physically engaging than waiting in an elevator.

Reaching the second floor—where a stone railing extended to his left and right, providing a vantage point of the entire lobby—he took a left, his footsteps echoing against the tiled floor. Those loud taps were soon muffled as he reached a hallway, which exited the lobby, and his feet met with lush carpet. So soft, so dark and green. Now he felt like he was in a law office of sorts, like one of those high-end lawyers whose clients consisted of the top ten percent of Gotham's high society.

This place was too extravagant, both for a government office and Gordon's tastes. While the GPD headquarters had its own extravagances, it was much simpler in comparison to City Hall.

Now, Hill's office was just ahead, three more doors and to his left to be precise. His sense of dread was building with each door he passed, but he kept on marching. He might as well try to get this over with as soon as possible so that, hopefully, he could get back to work.

Reaching the mayor's office, he knocked on the door and waited for the assent from within before entering.

"Shut the door," a gray-haired man ordered once he entered the office, the man not even bothering to look up at him.

Gordon didn't paused, his sense of dread and anxiety growing as he did as he was told. This could not be good, especially if Hill wanted privacy.

He approached the mayor's desk, remaining standing as he waited for Mayor Hill to speak again. It wasn't that he was going to be rude and not offer a greeting, but Gordon had a feeling that Hill wasn't in the mood for the typical pleasantries.

"Take a seat, Commissioner," Hill offered, glasses obscuring his eyes.

Not wanting to offend the man who had essentially given him his job, Gordon obeyed, glancing away from Hill only long enough to spot the nearest chair and take his seat. "Is there something you wanted, Mayor?" Gordon asked.

Finally looking up from his work, Hill looked Gordon in the eye for the first time since the Commissioner had entered the room. "I wanted to know how things are going for the new commissioner of the Gotham Police Department."

Should Gordon tell him the truth and explain that he was so far the most ineffective commissioner the department had ever had? Should he say how all the men he was passed over were making it so difficult to run the police department in any way, shape, or form? Or should he lie and say everything was fine?

"Things are going as good as they could be," Gordon finally answered. Not completely the truth, but not a lie either. Gordon didn't want to...alarm the mayor. At least not so soon.

"I know the position of commissioner is not the easiest," Hill said, dark eyes gracing the commissioner with a friendly glow. "There's a lot on your plate as it is." Wasn't that the understatement of the year. "There are a lot of expectations and naturally there's going to be some resistance. I am confident that before all is said and done, you will have accomplished what I, what we have set out to do. For the time being, what I want for you to do is to keep me up to date on something. Recently, there have been a rash of fires. The public is beginning to become afraid that we have some sort of...serial arsonist on the loose. I want you to tell me where we stand on that so that I may be able to calm the public down."

Gordon found it a bit odd that Hill would be interested in some fires. Nonetheless, he answered Hill honestly. "We caught the perpetrator."

"That's great!" Hill congratulated enthusiastically. "I knew I was right to place my trust in you."

As much as Gordon didn't want to, he knew that he had to more than honest about this. "There's...just one thing."

"Oh? What could that be?" Hill asked, watching him curiously.

"When we found the perpetrator, he was...he was frozen solid," Gordon explained awkwardly.

Hill blinked. "I don't quite grasp what you are saying."

"The man was in a block of ice," Gordon said frankly. "At the moment we're completely clueless as to what happened to cause this."

"I'm not following."

Why was this so hard? Why was Hill being so difficult or at least hardheaded? "My men were on the perpetrator's tail the whole night. All three fires from last night were a result of that chase. When they caught up with the suspect, they found him frozen alive in a block of ice and currently are unable to come up with anything as to how it happened. To sum it up, we have the perpetrator, but he won't be able to stand trial nor confess his guilt because A) we can't read him his Miranda rights, and B) he can't defend himself in a court of law."

Hill response was silence. Nothing but silence. His facial expression was the very definition of incredulous, though Gordon was leaning more towards flabbergasted. Gordon understood because he had a feeling he had the same look on his face when Bullock first informed him.

When Hill managed to say something, it was, "How did this happen?"

"We don't know, but we're working on it," Gordon tried to say as encouragingly as he could.

"Working on it? You better be," Hill demanded, his tone rising with anger. "The public is panicking and I don't blame them. There were those fires, the appearance of that bat creature, and now we have a suspected arsonist—"

"Actually he was convicted," Gordon said softly to himself, but Hill overheard him.

"—a convicted arsonist who is frozen solid into a block of ice. You have better be making some headway and soon, Gordon. This next year is an election year. I need to keep the public's trust in me and you have a standing in that. As long as I'm in office, you will be the acting commissioner, but if I'm out of office, I can't guarantee my replacement will allow you to keep your job. That's not a proposition that I like and neither should you."

"I'm fully aware of the situation," Gordon said for lack of anything better to say.

Hill stood up from his chair and walked around the desk, leaning back against his desk as he stared down at Gordon. "I want you to listen to me and listen to me good. Gotham is our city—not the mob's, not this bat-creature's, and most assuredly not whoever is responsible for this latest usurpation of justice. We have the opportunity to shape Gotham for years to come, but each of us needs to do their part. I can give you the time you need to get a grasp of this city's inner workings and in return I only ask that you reward my faith. Do your job and clean up the streets of Gotham."

"As you wish," Gordon said. "I suppose that I may take my leave?"

"Yes, yes, the sooner you get back to the station, the faster you can resolve this," Hill said, waving a hand dismissively. "I want you to be on the same page as I am, Gordon. We're both in the same boat. What sinks one will sink the other. Get things under control or God help us both."


	13. Good Old Option 3

Gordon scrapped the leftover food on his plate into the trashcan, setting the dirtied plate on the counter. It didn't sit there for long before it was snatched up by a much smaller, feminine hand, and placed in the dishwasher. Grabbing another plate, Gordon did the same thing with it and watched from the corner of his eye as it was taken away.

"You know, I miss the days when that thing was broken," he commented out loud, turning around as he set his dirtied knife into the utensil holder.

The young woman standing on the other side of the open washing machine looked at him, a hint of amusement in her blue eyes. "Why's that?"

"Because I could spend some time with you before you went to listen to that music player of yours."

The woman rolled her eyes, still looking amused as she tilted her head, causing her long red hair to slide over her shoulder. "I don't listen to it that much."

"Oh really?" Gordon spoke, a grin on his face. "They why is it everytime I turn around, there you are sitting on the couch or lying on the floor with those earphones in your ears? Would it kill ya to talk with your old man, Barbara?"

"You're not old, Daddy," Barbara said as she bent down and grabbed the washing machine door, closing it as she straightened herself out. Without the door in the way, she took a step closer to the older man and gave him a hug. "Even though you act like it."

"That's cause I am old," Gordon replied, returning the embrace.

"No you're not. Who else is going to take the garbage out? You certainly wouldn't let your only daughter do it."

This time it was Gordon's turn to roll his eyes. Releasing his hold, his daughter doing the same, he turned around and grimaced at the full can. "I got it, I got it," he grumbled as he reached down and pulled the white garbage bag out. Setting the bag on the floor, he hooked a finger beneath the red plastic drawstrings and pulled them up, closing the mouth of the bag. Tying the drawstrings together, he then lifted the bag up and began heading for the front door.

Behind him, he heard his daughter pulling out another bag. "Don't worry, I'll put a new one in," Barbara called out.

"Thank you, Princess," he said over his shoulder just as he reached the door and opened it. Stepping out, he shut the door behind him and glanced at the street in front of him. It was one of the cleaner places in town, thank God, though it was definitely not a high end place. Despite being made Commissioner, Gordon still rented the same house he had since his days as a detective. Admittedly he was looking at safer neighborhoods now that he was having a much larger paycheck coming in, but he was waiting until he could afford the move.

In the meantime, he would still enjoy his porch with its overhead roof. Many a night he would spend on it, sitting on a wooden rocking chair and drinking a beer. He found it very relaxing. Tonight wouldn't be one of those nights though. Carrying the garbage bag, he stepped off his porch and walked across the sidewalk to the edge of the street. Sitting next to a streetlamp was his metal garbage can, the one he lifted the metal lid off of and set his bag in. Replacing the lid, Gordon turned around to head back to the house.

There, standing in the doorway of his porch was the Bat-Man. The sudden appearance made the older man jump with a cry. What...what was he doing here? Why his house? Why out in the open?

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice a low hiss.

The Bat merely answered, "We need to talk."

Feeling paranoid, Gordon glanced from side to side, checking to see if anyone was seeing this. He wasn't sure if being caught in the company of a vigilante would fly over very well. "What do you want?"

"Lynns."

"What do you want to know about Lynns?" Gordon responded, taken back by the man's answer

The Bat just leveled a look at him. It became painfully obvious what he wanted.

"We apprehended him last night, but from the manner of which we found him, I doubt he'll ever see a courtroom," Gordon sighed, removing his glasses so that the could rub the bridge of his nose easier.

"I already know that," came the growled response. "It's the manner of his capture that intrigues me."

"You mean the frozen part? Not much. We're still working out how it could have happened in the first place. I'd say that forensics was having a field day, but so far even they are stumped. We might have to reach out for outside help," Gordon answered.

The Bat was silent for a moment before he said, "There was crystallization with the ice, indicating a rapid drop in temperature and withdrawal of heat. Water molecules in the air were pulled in and dropped below the freezing point, at which they solidified. The ice is natural despite its unnatural appearance."

"I didn't understand most of that," Gordon admitted freely. Most of those words flew over his head, even though the vigilante clearly knew what he was talking about. "Mind putting that down on paper somewhere?"

The Bat-Man continued to bore his eyes into the older man. "I'm still unsure of the mechanism that caused it, but it most likely is weaponized and portable. I'm currently researching power sources that could create such a phenomenon. I think there might be a way to reverse the process."

"Well that's comforting," Gordon said, looking away from the Bat-Man. "We have someone out there who can turn anyone they want into a human popsicle and we have no leads as to who it could be." He bowed his head and sighed regretfully. "This just keeps getting better and better."

When he was met with silence, the commissioner looked up to see his dark visitor missing from sight. Staring at the empty space, he looked all around to make sure he was completely alone before his shoulders sagged. "How can someone dressed like that disappear without making a sound?" he wondered aloud.

* * *

The room was barely furnished, much to Lew Moxon's chagrin. Things wouldn't be like this had he not been targeted by that son of a bitch Falcone. With his headquarters a burnt husk, he had to set up shop in a safehouse of sorts. It was an apartment building in downtown Gotham, newly built by his construction company and ready to accept tenants. That, of course, would have to be postponed due to his current situation.

The room he was in was the manager's suite, situated on the first floor. Aside from a cheap folding desk and chairs, there wasn't much decor. The only thing else situated in the room were large crates loaded with ammunition and weapons. Moxon wanted a front row seat as he watched his men pull out automatic rifles and magazines, filling each clip with hollow-round bullets.

Falcone had crossed him and he wasn't a man to take things lying down. With all the other families around watching, he had to strike back and settle any ill-conceived opinion that he was getting soft. Retaliation was in order and he was going to make sure no one thought Lew Moxon was an easy target.

Though from paranoia or caution, there were other men stationed throughout the building, necessary security as he liked to call them. Regular patrols at all times, lookouts on the roof, and every man armed to the teeth. There were other weapons in the other rooms, ones with a little more umph than machine guns, but those were being held back in reserve. Though Moxon wanted revenge, he wasn't just about to go show the whole city what he was capable of. They would know eventually, but now was not the time to show one's entire hand. You had to have an ace in the hole after all.

Three of the men stood up then and left the room, carrying their loaded weapons with them. The door closed behind them with a bang that disturbed no one. Scratching his large nose, Moxon glanced to the man designated as the leader of the operation and asked, "You're clear on the plan, right?"

"Hit Falcone's Shipping Yard, do some damage, leave a strong impression that you're not a man to be fucked with," the man replied as he checked the bullet chamber of his gun.

An odd sound occurred, very faint and fading seconds later. It was something that had been occurring within the hour, but a couple of checks concluded it was something with the air conditioning units. That's what one of the patrols had reported anyways. Moxon sighed as he rubbed a hand through his white hair. A brand new building and already the equipment needed fixing. Another time, another day.

"Don't worry about this, Boss," the team leader said as he closed the chamber with an audible click. "We've got this. I've hand-picked every man here for the job and they've never failed me. The Roman won't know what hit him."

"I'll hold you to that," Moxon replied, leaning back in his chair. "These Italians think they run this city. Their arrogance is sickening. They need to be reminded what their place is."

That annoying sound happened again, but it was ignored as all his men looked at him, halting in their activities. "I hope you're all ready. It's time for action," the old man said.

"You heard him," the team leader declared, facing the other men. "Let's load up."

A gunshot sounded off them, causing everyone in the room to freeze. Slowly, they looked towards the door and stared at it. That shot had been close, not outside the door, but in a nearby hallway.

It then happened again, this time followed by that air-conditioning sound. However, that sound was different this time, louder, longer. And there it was again, starting off high-pitched and dulling down. _What the hell is going on out there? _the mob boss wondered.

That was when there were alarmed screams from outside the door, followed by much more gunfire. The gunshots and screams came to a quick end as that sound sounded off, this time even louder. Moxon couldn't help but notice a slight blue light emerge from the creak beneath the door.

Immediately, all the men had their guns trained on the door, waiting in trepidation. There was something out there and it wanted to get in here. Why else would it be here if not for that? And yet, a maddening silence fell over the room, everyone on edge as to what would happen next.

Something hit the door hard then. There was a collective flinch by all the men in the room from the booming blow. Then a second hit, which caused parts of the wooden door to splinter and crack. On the third strike, the door caved in, falling into pieces on the floor. With nothing to stop it, the thing responsible walked in.

It was man-shaped, that was the first thing Moxon took note of. The second was the pale, nearly blue, bald head within the fishbowl sitting on top of the man's shoulders. Eyes covered by red glasses scanned the room until they found him. "Lew Moxon," an amplified voice stated, the man's lips moving, "you cannot hide from me anymore."

Moxon felt his stomach drop. This guy was after him! "Get him!" he shouted, pointing a finger at his attacker.

Instantly, his men opened fired on the mystery man, unloading every bullet they had. Some were even shouting as they fired their guns. However, it became quickly apparent that something was wrong. First off, the bullets that hit the man bounced off, ricocheting about the room, not even leaving a mark on the armored suit. The grey torso held strong, even the black arms and legs. The blue rings around shoulders, elbows, and wrists weren't even blemished.

And blast the man, he didn't even seem to care he had pieces of lead pelting him. "Your attempt at self-preservation is a losing effort," he said emotionlessly. As if to prove it, he raised an arm up, revealing the oddly-shaped gun he had been carrying. How Moxon had missed that, he wasn't sure.

The man then pointed his weapon to the men at his right and pulled the trigger. That high-pitched, dulling sound rang out as a bluish-white beam shot out and hit the closest man. A scream rang out as ice instantly spread across his body and then around it. Due to him being closed to the wall, the ice reached out and sealed off all space between the man and the wall. Moving his gun slowly, he held the gun's trigger, the beam touching each man one by one and freezing them screaming, yet alive in ice.

The beam came to an end a moment later, some time after the men on the left side of the room had stopped firing, staring in horror at their comrades encased in ice. Moxon was staring the exact same way.

Then the man turned to face the other men and leveled his ice gun at them. Instantly, they began yelling and running for the door. They didn't get too far as the man fired his gun once more and entombed them in ice. Moxon could only watch helplessly in fear as human beings stared out in terror, forever stuck that way.

That fear doubled itself once the man finished his work and then turned his sights onto Moxon. "Alone at last," he stated, holding his gun at shoulder height.

It was instinctual. Moxon pushed back in his chair, causing it to topple over and sending him to the ground. Instantly, he was scrambling over the floor until he reached the backwall, the furthest he could go to get away from this attacker.

"No, there is nowhere you can go now, Moxon. It is time to face fate."

"No, no, you can't do this," Moxon stammered out, holding a hand out before him. "Please don't do this. We can talk this out."

"Curious," the man replied nonplussed. "How many men have said the same to you? How many times have you decided to look the other way and order their demise? Cause the destruction of families that will forever be broken. I'm sure you don't know, but I do. I know them all. It is my way of honoring their loss."

"I'm sorry, alright? I didn't want to do those things, but if I didn't, someone else would," Moxon pleaded. Surely this man could see reason, that he wasn't all to blame.

"You claim to not have a choice?" A short blast of that gun fired from the barrel and hit Moxon on one of his legs. A painful stabbing sensation filled his foot, causing him to scream out. When he looked at the damage, he saw his foot, lower leg, and part of the floor covered in a thick layer of ice. Already he could feel himself going numb there. "I do not believe it. We've all have the choice to do good or do harm and too many times you have chosen the latter. There is always a choice for men like you."

"No, don't do this, please; I'm begging you!"

"Beg if you must, it will not change anything."

When the gun fired again, the beam hit Moxon in the face as he screamed.

* * *

"I've had enough of this freak!" Tommy shouted as he hid down the hall from the boss' room.

"You and me both," Lewis agreed, hefting his heavy load onto his shoulder.

"First that bat-thing shows up, now that guy with the ice lazer! What's next, a Martian?"

"Don't ask for more trouble," Lewis reprimanded as he dropped his load on the ground. It was a rectangular box, one that he opened to reveal a bazooka. Picking it up, he loaded it with one of the missiles and then placed the weapon on his shoulder, aiming it down the hall. "In case you haven't noticed, we've got enough here."

Tommy grew quiet at that. "Hey, what are you doing with that?"

"What do ya think? I'm gonna blast that ice man to kingdom come with this baby."

"But the boss didn't want us using those things yet."

"The boss can get pissy later," Lewis grumbled. "I'd rather he throw a fit about a job well done than not being able to hear it. You saw what this guy did to Vic, right?"

Tommy shuddered at the thought. "Yeah, yeah I did."

That was when they both heard a heavy footstep. Staring down the hall, they saw the ice-making man walk out of the boss' room, oblivious to his surroundings. Taking the initiative, Lewis aimed the bazooka at him and fired it. He felt the force of the rocket launching out, rocking him backwards as it flew out of the tube and towards its target.

It made contact with the man's suit, exploding instantly. The force of the blast threw both Tommy and Lewis from their feet and onto their backs on the floor.

Laying there dazed for several moments, the two men then slowly looked up and stared at the destruction, not seeing any sight of the man. "Think you got him?" Tommy asked.

* * *

The sound of her high-heeled shoes clacking on the sidewalk filled Lois' ears. In her arms was a grocery bag loaded with food. It was times like this she wished she had a working car—that and making sure people didn't steal things from the engine. How was she supposed to know a car needed distributor caps?

At first she had waved it off, thinking she could use a little exercise to liven up her day. A couple hours later and she had quite enough of that exercise. It had been two days since she had taken her car in and as far as she could tell, little to no progress had been made. The lousy mechanics kept finding new things to fix and it was adding up to a higher bill than she had dreamed of. She wanted her car back, damn it!

And damn her need to look professional. The dark-haired woman knew she should have just worn sneakers or something, at least until she was able to drive again. Walking around in high-heels while carrying very heavy bags was tearing up her feet. Oh sure, she could have bummed a ride from one of the guys in the bullpit, but then they would've expected something in return. Lois Lane did not do "something in return." "Something in return" was for people she wanted to do "something in return" for. None of those guys were those kind of people.

Of course, walking through the streets of one of the most crime-ridden cities this side of Chicago—and being a woman—was not a good idea. It was just like asking for something bad to happen. In fact, she was surprised she hadn't been mugged yet. She must have broken her previous record by now.

A sudden explosion roaring through the streets proved that point a moment later, sending Lois diving to the ground on top of her groceries. Covering her head with her arms, she closed her eyes tightly and hoped that whatever had caused that explosion wouldn't be coming for her. The last thing she needed was to become the news.

When several moments went by without anything happening, the dark-haired woman let out a sigh of relief. A quick glance at her groceries made her swear a second later. Fifty bucks down the drain and for what? Crushed eggs and lettuce? Like the hard-nose reporter she was, she was going to find out just what was going on that made her ruin tonight's casserole.

What? Just because she was a no-nonsense, independent career woman didn't mean she couldn't cook. She wasn't Betty Crocker or anything, but she could make a mean bowl of oatmeal.

Her attention was soon directed towards the building from which the explosion had occurred. Shouting men—what were those, military-grade machine guns?—came flooding out of the woodwork, some firing shots, but all heading for a smoking heap that was lying in the road.

Lois was tempted to call it some kind of military exercise, but she could see quite clearly that these men were anything but military. Why would they be coming out of a recently completed apartment complex—of which Lois had been hoping to get into—like a swarm of hornets? And it sounded like they were shouting something.

"Get that thing!"

"Blow it to smithereens!"

"Send it back to Hell!"

"Cap that son of a bitch!"

Wow, they sounded pissed.

As for what they were heading to, it was starting to move. Now, Lois had seen a lot of things in her time; many things that would boggle the mind. The thing that was picking itself up, and blocking off traffic while it was at it, was something that she had never seen before and thus surprised her.

What was that, a spaceman?

The men were firing their guns, the awful sound of gunfire pounding at Lois' ears, and yet, she could see sparks spouting off of the spaceman, but not seemingly being hurt by the shots. In fact, it didn't seem to mind it at all.

It was then that it raised its own gun, something that Lois hadn't seen until now. How had she not seen that? It was a hand cannon for crying out loud!

But unlike the the firepower the shooters had, the spaceman fired something completely different. A beam of light erupted from the barrel, coupled with a high-pitched scream, which dulled a second later. Even more shocking was that the moment the beam touched something, ice formed and spread all over it. The men never stood a chance as they were frozen—

_Hold on, frozen men?_ The revelation of what she was seeing hit Lois with the force of a semi. Already she was recalling the words that had been exchanged between Gordon and that fat ass of a sergeant. Garfield Lynns had been frozen and these men were having the same thing done to them!

Oh, her reporter senses were tingling.

"Run!" one of the shooters shouted before he and a few others took off down the street, trying to get away from the spaceman. In response, the spaceman turned his gun on them and began firing quick bursts of that light, freezing them in running poses. It was fascinating to watch in that train-wreck sort of way. Not every beam hit the shooters, but it left patches of ice on the road, cars, and buildings.

And then one of the running men went right by her. Eyes wide, Lois watched as the spaceman fired his gun in her direction, the icy blast seemingly flying right at her. Survival instinct kicked in and she tried to scramble out of the way, climbing over a mountain that just happened to be her ruined grocery bag. She had almost gotten out of the way and had she done so, she would've danced for joy.

Instead, the sensation of a thousand needles covered her leg, causing her to scream. The pain lingered for what felt like forever before it dulled and became numb, along with the rest of her leg. With gritted teeth, she peaked at her leg and found a solid layer of ice covering it from foot to thigh, ending somewhere below her skirt.

Oh crap, that wasn't good.

She tried to move her leg, or at least continue to drag herself along the sidewalk. Unfortunately, her ill-received exercise over the last couple of days failed her as the ice block proved too heavy for her to go anywhere. A feeling of helpless overwhelmed her, causing the building of tears at her eyes. There was nowhere to go, not that she could get there to begin with. She was also defenseless should someone decide to mug her and considering her luck, that wasn't all they would do.

Stiffening at that thought, Lois looked around and was relieved to see that she was relatively by herself. Those shooters were further down the block, along with that spaceman hot on their heels as the sound of his firing gun softened with the growing distance. At least she wouldn't have the rest of her frozen, thank God. However, it was then her initial feeling of relief disappeared as she realized that the spaceman hadn't cared that he had hit her. Oh sure, wine and dine her, make her feel special, then freeze half her body, and leave her with the check. What a lousy date that guy was.

Still, if there was anyone nearby she would have preferred to hang around, it would have been him. Considering he had just taken on a group of gun-wielding thugs, he was someone you wanted around to fend off a mugger, or God forbid a rapist. Oh, that was just a lovely, lovely thought.

Perhaps she should have sucked up her pride and done some "something in return."

That thought vanished a second later as she heard a sound from behind her. It had been slight, but since she was on red alert, any sound could be a potential hero or bad guy. Oh please, please let it be a hero.

Slowly, awkwardly she twisted her body around to look behind her. Standing mere feet away was a dark figure, covered in a black cloak. Sharp horns rose from its head while blank white eyes stared down at her.

A couple of options popped into her head. The first one was scream her head off; the second was to whimper like a small child and hope this guy would grant her pity.

She chose the third option. She fainted.

Good old Option 3.


	14. How Are We Going To Do That?

He considered himself a humble man, never one to indulge in satisfaction at one's work. Staring at his fleeing victims, he had to say he had done a good job for the night; one mob family put out of business forever was quite an accomplishment.

Aside from the explosive projectile that had been fired at him, everything had gone according to plan. He would have to inspect his suit for damages once he arrived at a safe location, but he did not expect to find anything outside of cosmetic ruin. He had been right to fortify his design when building it.

Lowering his ice gun, he softened his hardened features. He was quite aware of how a stern, if not angered, look could frighten the more cowardly of foes. A man he greatly respected used the same technique to fascinating success. It wasn't as reported on as his first appearance, but the smaller crimes that had left local police officers scratching their heads were dizzying in number.

A faint sound reached his ears then, alerting him to something not quite right. His first reaction was defensive in nature, raising his weapon and turning to face the sound's source. He was surprised when a whirling projectile struck his hand, knocking his ice gun from his grasp and sending it clattering to the ground. He felt no pain from the blow due to the fortifications to his gloved hand, but he did feel a slight pressure.

No matter; there was still no threat to him that he could not deal with. His suit was fully equipped to handle foes without his choice of weapon. Lowering his hand, he completed his turn to face his new attacker.

It was one thing to hear about the man; it was quite another to actually see him. Although he felt nothing, for one single moment he felt his heart rate accelerate. There, standing in all of his dark glory, was the Bat-Man. Even in the red-tinted lens of his glasses, the man appeared completely black. The foreboding aura, hardened stare, and shrouding cape served to create an intimidating appearance. But where simpler, cowardly men would cry in fear and display all the behavioral reactions of alarm, his initial reaction was of admiration, or would have been. He was not afraid; in fact, he believed he was standing on equal ground with a colleague.

"I have always desired to stand in your presence," he called out to the dark specter. He tried to use a gregarious tone, but years of disuse had rendered his social talents insufficient. "It is an honor to meet you, Bat-Man."

The Bat-Man held his stare, keeping to himself. It was an expected answer, so he could wait as long as it took.

"Who are you?" the man's voice eventually demanded, his tone gravelly to the ear.

"Forgive my manners; I should have realized you required an introduction," he apologized. "I am Victor Fries, a pursuer of justice much like yourself."

Fries felt at that moment the Bat-Man directed his attention elsewhere, though it was hard to tell. Those blank, white eyes held their secrets well. "You consider justice freezing people alive?"

"No, that is not justice. It is punishment for all those that commit foul deeds, the criminals that fester within this city like so much decay on a carcass."

The dark being's face hardened further. "Not everyone you've attacked tonight is a criminal. Innocent people were harmed."

"An unfortunate and unintended result, yet necessary. The cowardly men wished to use these good people as shields so they would not be harmed. They must be shown that nothing and no one can prevent justice from falling upon them."

"I disagree."

The way he had said it, with such finality, made Fries feel as if he were speaking to the ultimate authority, the man that held this city in his blackened hands. That did not sit well with him. He was fighting against all those who claimed this city as their own possession. "Then we shall agree to disagree," he proposed. There were other, much more important things he wished to discuss with this man than differing philosophies. "I only ask that we come to a mutual understanding that, while different, our methods are working."

"Working," the Bat-Man repeated. There was no question, no demand for clarification, yet Fries felt as if that was exactly what this man wanted.

"I have lived many years in isolation, Bat-Man. This city and all its inhabitants were slowly, but surely sinking into decadence that I felt was impossible to stop. But then you appeared, began fighting against the rising tide of corruption and evil. Things changed. The shockwave of your arrival reached even I, and I felt that something special was happening. You are only one man, but that does not stop you for fighting for something greater than yourself. I do not see why others cannot follow your example."

"So this is why you attacked Garfield Lynns. This is why you're here at Moxon's headquarters."

"Garfield Lynns was a spontaneous occurrence. He came to me for judgment. I came to Moxon to administer his."

"Spontaneous. You just conveniently had a combat suit and weapon ready for the moment a man stumbled upon you. Forgive me for being skeptical."

Fries nodded his head in understanding. "I can see your logic, but it is the truth. I did not originally design this suit for combat, but for survival."

This time, there was a question. "Survival?"

"Yes, I have a condition that has left me unable to live in above-freezing temperatures. This suit is a mobile refrigeration unit, for lack of a better description. It wasn't until your exploits had reached my ear that I upgraded its defensive capabilities."

"And your gun? How would you explain that?"

"I only created it for defensive measures should I be discovered and attacked. My intent was never to use it on people."

"Could have fooled me."

"I am not the only one with weapons here, Bat-Man." By now, Fries was growing tired of this man's skepticism. Had he not explained himself enough?

"My equipment isn't designed for killing, Fries," the Bat-Man replied, just as stony as Fries. "I subdue and restrain, not kill. That is one thing I will not budge on."

"Admirable, but ultimately misguided."

"It is not up to one man to decide the fate of others. There are court systems and proper channels for these men."

"Ah yes, the courts," Fries all but spat out. "Those only work in theory. Can you deny that men like Moxon have skirted this institution, taking advantage of the corruption that festers within it? If this justice system really worked, there would be no need for men like you and myself."

And yet, he was not done with his rant. "You know this better than anyone else. There are very few good people here that will stand up to injustice and tyranny. Most are comfortable enough to allow evil men to do as they please. Everyday, more and more people join these cyclical mechanizations, further prolonging this city's suffering. Future generations are being sold out for the comforts of today."

"There are organizations designed to confront that problem," the Bat-Man countered. "Charities like the Children's Hospital and the Wayne Foundation have made it their mission to stop that."

"And yet they continue to fail. I am very aware of their works, but neither of them can match the efforts of the Nora Fries Foundation, not in awareness nor success."

"Nora Fries..."

"Yes, my late wife. She was a loving woman who cared deeply for her fellow man. Before the circumstances that altered me, I founded the foundation with the intent of continuing her work. I've had to stand aside from active involvement, but I am always up-to-date with its activities."

The Bat-Man fell silent for several moments. "What happened to you? Why are you so cynical about this city?"

Fries closed his eyes, a flood of memories assaulting his mind. "An accident. I once worked for Wayne Enterprises and was cast aside. I was the head of their cryogenics program, the reason why the company excelled in the area. And after all the research and effort I gave them, they turned their back on me when I needed it most. An accident occurred in the lab and I was locked inside of it, left for dead." He opened his eyes and stared at the Bat-Man. "But that is a story for another time."

Raising both of his arms, he held out his right hand towards his fallen weapon, his left to his abdominal section. On his suit was a large, dark circle, one that he touched with a finger and activated the magnetic program in his suit's hand. In moments, his gun flew off the ground and towards his hand. With practiced ease, he caught the weapon at its handle, just as he had designed it to.

"As I said before, it has been an honor, Bat-Man," Fries said as he aimed his weapon at the ground between them. "For now it is time that we went our separate ways. Farewell."

Squeezing the trigger of the ice gun, he fired a blast at the street, slowly crossing it in front of him. A wall of smooth ice grew between him and the Bat-Man, reaching from the buildings of one side of the street to the other, effectively separating the two men.

With the task accomplished, Fries turned to leave. Although their first meeting hadn't gone as he desired it, at least they had established common ground. Hopefully they would meet again, which was very likely due to their mutual interest. Fries was looking forward to it.

* * *

Everything was...fuzzy as she came to. That was the last time she had candy corn before going to bed. Every time she ate those little candy...whatever the heck they were made of, she had nightmares and didn't get a good night's sleep. In fact, what time was it? It felt too early for her to be up.

And what was up with her bed? It didn't feel as comfortable as it usually was. If anything, it felt harder and that was saying something—she preferred her mattresses to be firm as a rockc. Damn it, her body felt so weak too. She was having trouble raising her hand.

She cracked open her eyes, everything a blur before them, and she waited for them to adjust to the darkness in her room. It'd only take a moment and then she could look at the stupid alarm clock and see how early it really was. Any moment now. Why were things still dark?

That certainly wasn't right. It wasn't right at all. The longer she laid there, waiting for her vision to adjust, the more and more it seemed like it was darker. That could not be, especially since her apartment faced one of the more lit up areas of Gotham so it was never really dark inside of it. Had there been a city-wide power failure? Because that would be great. She wouldn't have to wear that sleeping mask tonight.

Oh, that must have been it. She was wearing that sleeping mask. That was why she still couldn't see anything. Vale would have a field day if she found this out. Now, to raise her hand up and...there wasn't anything on her face.

Her heart rate began to increase. Something was wrong, very wrong. She could feel it. It wasn't just her woman's intuition speaking here but her reporter's sense as well. Okay, don't panic Lois. Now was not the time to panic. Take a look around, see if you noticed anything that looked familiar. Maybe there was a window nearby or something.

She turned her head slowly to her right and while it wasn't as dark as above her, she frowned as all she could see was rock. There were small stalagmites...or where they stalactites? Tites held on to the ceiling so then these were mites. And that looked like a cliff right ahead. And it was way darker over there.

Okay, nothing over there. What about over here? She turned her head to the left and it was much brighter this way. A good thing and a bad thing to tell the truth. Good because there was some light she could use to see where she was. Bad because she could see what else was here with her.

It looked like some kind of...hospital? There were charts, large machines of some kind that she didn't care to know the name of and there were a few other unused...tables. Not beds, tables. Was that what she was laying on? She tilted her head to glance down. Yes, yes it was. And now that she was getting a better look at herself, she noticed that she wasn't wearing what she normally wore. Which, by the way, were clothes. What she was wearing now was a white, fuzzy robe, which meant...

...someone had undressed her and gotten a good look at her goods.

Okay, she could handle that. The person who had the gall to undress her in the first place wouldn't.

Wait, what she doing here in the first place? She was in some kind of hospital or medical place that happened to be in some sort of cave of some kind. This is the kind of stuff Vale would write on a good day. What was someone like her doing in a place like this?

Wait, what was that? It sounded high-pitched and above her and—those were bats up above her, weren't they? Now that her eyes had adjusted better, she could see the movement up there, slight and vague as it was. Oh she hoped to God none of those little bastards got the idea to go number two any time soon.

Suddenly, the smell of this place was explained.

Hold up, what was that? That didn't sound like a bat or bats. That didn't sound like those little rats with wings right above her at all. If she had to say, that sounded like a human voice. A human voice which meant that she wasn't alone here. A human voice which meant she could get some damn answers and make whoever had brought her here and undressed her life's as unpleasant as possible.

She was not going to be some kind of kidnapping victim. Not now, not in the future. Ever

Pressing a hand onto the table, she used it to hold her upper body up, her other hand going to the opening in the robe and grabbing the edges to keep them closed. Whoever had changed her had already seen enough of her body for one day; she wasn't going to let them get another peek.

The voice grew louder as the seconds ticked by, meaning it was coming closer. Faintly, Lois wondered if she should hide, plan a sneak-attack, or just start running and hope she didn't slip on any guano. That all changed when she heard a second, accented voice.

Oh bat guano, there were two of them. Two people she had to potentially silence for potentially copping feels on her. Well, a woman was going to have to do what a woman was going to have to do.

And then they appeared in her sights. Apparently she was much higher than she thought because the two men rose over the edge cave formation she was on. Due to their movements, they were climbing a set of stairs until they reached the top. The first person she zeroed in on was the man dressed in all black with horns. It only took her a second to realize that he was the Batman she had been writing about so much and that he was much bigger than she originally thought.

Then again, everyone looked bigger when you were just barely over 5'2".

The second man, however, made the whole scene surreal. Instead of wearing some bat costume like the Batman, he instead wore a suit that did nothing to hide his elderly features. She quickly noted his receding hairline and thin mustache, adding his weird accent to his...his...

Wait, she knew that man. Every reporter knew him or at least knew about him. You had to be an idiot not to, Vale notwithstanding. Her recognition of the elderly man jump-started her frightened brain, getting her into what she deemed her "reporter-mode."

"Alfred Pennyworth?" she asked out loud, much to the surprise of the two men. They had both frozen in their tracks and stared at her, almost as if they were in a daze.

Lois' mind was a frenzy of thoughts. What the heck was Pennyworth doing here? What was he doing around a vigilante of all people? Shouldn't he be at Wayne Manor doing butlery things? What would Bruce Wayne think if his butler was not within calling distance when he needed his shoes tied? Hell, the man seemed quite content with that arrangement, never being too far from his employer.

Wait, wait, wait, back up. Alfred Pennyworth was known for being in the vicinity Bruce Wayne at most times. He ran the Wayne household, chaffered, and probably wiped the man's ass with hundred dollar bills on a gold-plated toilet. Rarely were the two men not in the same building at the same time. And if Pennyworth was here...

Switching her sights from Pennyworth, she stared right at the Batman and spoke, "Bruce Wayne?"

Okay, even that sounded outlandish to her, now that she said that out loud. She must've gotten lost in her train of thought somewhere and—

Alfred then turned to Batman and said, "I believe we didn't make the sedative strong enough, Sir."

Oh dear God, she was right.

What was best described as an awkward silence fell upon the three. Awkward meaning Lois was freaking out about her discovery while the two men across from her found themselves at a loss for words. Every second that stretched on only made it worse until the point Lois just wanted to scream.

And then the Bat...Bruce Wayne spoke to his butler, "Alfred, I believe Ms. Lane has some questions she would like to ask me. If you would give us a moment." Lois had to marvel at the deep voice he said that in, completely unlike the cheerful tone associated with Bruce Wayne.

"Of course, Sir." Giving a bow, Alfred turned on his heels and headed down the staircase and disappeared soon after.

Which left Lois with a bat-clad billionaire. Oh joy.

Wayne returned his focus to the dark-haired woman, boring his blank eyes into her. It was quite unnerving. "You can speak now."

A part of the reporter raged against being given permission for anything; however, her inquisitive nature was in full force and craved answers. So she started out with the biggest question she could come up with. Lifting her hand from the table, she gestured to the cave and asked, "What is all of this?"

"Medical equipment," Wayne answered gruffly.

Lois glared. "That's not what I meant. Why are you in a cave, dressed as a bat, with God knows what in here? And why did you bring me here with you?"

Wayne chose to ignore the first question in favor of the second one. "You needed medical attention. There wasn't much of a choice."

She raised an eyebrow at that. "Then why not drop me off at a hospital? They have the same equipment you have and trained technicians to use it."

"What hospital do you know has a hydrothermal tank capable of dissolving ice? Need I remind you that your leg was frozen and without immediate attention, you would have lost said leg?"

The memory hit Lois with the force of a baseball bat. Her lying on the ground, leg encased in ice, barely able to move. And then seeing the Batman standing over her, staring down at her like she was beneath him. Yeah, that wasn't a very pleasant memory.

Letting out a sigh, she answered, "I suppose I should thank you for helping me. It was fortunate you knew how to get rid of the ice."

The corner of his mouth twitched up, the man unable to hide a split-second's worth of amusement. "Actually, I didn't know. You're the first person I tried that on; fortunately it worked."

Lois' mouth dropped at that. "You mean I was a guinea pig? You used me as a freaking guinea pig?! You...you..." she trailed off, noticing a full blown smirk on Wayne's face...well, just the part showing since he had that mask on. That quickly drew the dark-haired woman's ire. "Would you take off that freaking mask already?! If I'm gonna scream at you, I want to at least see that stupid mug of yours!"

Wayne just kept that infuriating smirk on his face, damn him. But then he gave into her request, raising his gauntleted hands and pulling off his mask. If there was any doubt that Bruce Wayne was Batman, it vanished the instant the billionaire's face appeared, his dark hair shellacked to his forehead. In that instant, the outrage the reporter felt died a quick, merciful death.

In a matter of seconds, Lois analyzed this man. Everything she knew and assumed about him fell by the wayside. If his deeper voice had been any indication Bruce Wayne was not who he seemed to be, there were a multitude of other things that piled onto that conclusion. The confident pose the man wore with his batsuit far exceeding the haughty stance of the billionaire. The predatory gaze was replaced with a stoic, if not serious scowl that seemed permanently etched onto his face. If the playboy was considered an idiot, the intelligence that radiated from his eyes spoke of someone that knew far more than he should. It was like she was staring at a different person than the one she was familiar with.

Looking him over, making note of the dark armor and cape, she spoke softly, "Why are you dressed like this? Why a bat?"

The amusement on the man's face disappeared, taking on a stoic look—it was a stark contrast to the usual photos of the billionaire. "Actually, the bat was your creation."

"What? Mine? But you're the one dressing like one!"

Walking towards her, he moved around the table and headed to a bench that was covered with papers and folders. "I suppose that's the effect," he answered, sounding as if he were talking about the weather rather than about dressing as a flying rodent. "I was trying to be vague, let the criminals come up with the most terrifying demon they could imagine. It was you that coined the 'Bat-Man' name."

"Actually, it's Batman now, all one word, no hyphen," Lois automatically corrected. In response, Bruce turned his head to look at her, raising an eyebrow. "It looks better and saves ink, alright?"

"Whatever you say."

Lois slid her legs over the table until they hung over the edge, dangling above the floor. Both of her hands moved to rest on the table's edge, ready to push her off at a moment's notice. "You never answered me though; why are you doing this?"

Bruce remained silent at this, fiddling with whatever was on the bench that held his attention. Finally, he answered, "You're a reporter, you know just how far this city has sunk. People are living in fear, looking over their shoulders for predators of the worst kind."

"I know," Lois acknowledged, prodding him to continue.

"They don't deserve to live this way—no one does. Yet, no one has taken a stand; no one has said 'enough's enough.' That's what I'm doing. I'm doing this so that a father can walk home from work and not find his family massacred in his living room; so that a mother doesn't have to watch as her children are twisted into monsters." He paused for a moment, as if he were considering his next words carefully. "So that children don't have to watch their parents walk out the front door and wonder if that will be the last time they see them."

That was all well and good and all, but Lois half-believed it. She hadn't interviewed all those politicians for nothing now—she knew an omission of the truth when she heard one. It was time to dig a little deeper. "That's pretty noble of you and all, but why not join the police force then? Or donate a couple of your billions to them?"

The man snorted before fully turning around to face her. "Don't play dumb, Lane, it doesn't suit you. You were the one that grilled Gordon at that press conference and you didn't do it because you felt like it. The police department is full of so many corrupt men, there's no way to tell where it begins and where it ends.

"The police can't do anything, not right now. The people of Gotham don't even respect them, even the good ones. A dramatic example has to be made, to get everyone's attention."

"And you think dressing up like this," at this she waved a hand towards his wardrobe, "is dramatic enough? Yeah, what a great idea. I'm surprised more people haven't joined you."

Wayne stared at her before walking back towards the staircase. At this Lois pushed herself off the table and onto her feet. She nearly lost her balance as one of her legs gave out, the reporter grabbing the table behind her instantly. Ugh, she forgot she had a leg that had been out of commission for awhile. Walking was going to be challenging, balancing on high-heels everyday notwithstanding. Carefully, she held herself up with the table until she was sure she could stand on both legs. When she felt confident, she stood to her full height and found herself lighting up with joy when she didn't fall over. Looking over to Bruce Wayne, she saw he had completely disappeared from view.

A scowl appeared on Lois' face. That jackass; what was he doing leaving a poor, helpless woman behind without at least offering a helping hand? His parents should have taught him better. Huffing irritably, she began walking to the staircase, finding herself doing so awkwardly. One of her legs was able to make quick, normal steps while the other required larger, roundabout steps. Is this what happened when you got your legs frozen? A freaking limp? She was gonna have to have some words with that careless spaceman someday very soon.

Doing the best she could, she limped her way down the set of stairs, finding herself on a metal platform. The most prominent thing here was a massive computer, one that she was currently wondering if it had Solitaire. An odd thought considered it was in a cave. And speaking of which, Bruce was walking to it, heading for a chair stationed right in front of the ginormous screen. Hobbling after him, she crossed her arms over chest, the chilliness of the cave somehow making itself known. Would it kill this guy to get a heater installed?

Just as she reached the back of the chair, Bruce began speaking, his fingers pressing keys on a keyboard. At this point, the reporter noticed three curved blades jutting out of the man's forearm. Not something you wanted to get personally acquainted with. A quick glance to the other arm showed the same blades. And then there was his chest, each side covered with an all-black armored plate. Oddly enough, she felt as if something was missing from there. "Someone already has," he said, interrupting her musing as he responded to her earlier comment, one that Lois momentarily forgot before it came back to her.

At this, the picture of a man appeared on the computer monitor. The guy was rather somber-looking with a receding hairline and glasses. "This is Victor Fries, a former Wayne Enterprises employee."

"Okay, what about him? Is he dressing up like a bat too?"

"No," Wayne replied. "He's the man that froze your leg."

Lois stiffened at that revelation. This was the spaceman? They didn't look anything alike! "You serious? But he looks different!"

"A workplace accident," Wayne informed her. "According to him, he has to live at subzero temperatures. The suit he's wearing creates that sort of environment for him. Recently he has weaponized it and the result you know already."

"Too well. At least on the bright side this will make for a great article. Billionaire Secretly Moonlights as Vigilante; Ice Man Brings Early Winter."

"You aren't seriously considering writing about all this," Bruce remarked cautiously, tilting his head towards her.

Lois looked at him incredulously. "Of course I am! The public deserves to know what's going on! They need to know about the people taking the law into their own hands."

"Okay, so you get this story published; what then?"

She blinked her eyes owlishly at that. "What do you mean 'what then'?"

"I mean," at this, Bruce leaned back into his chair, turning in it to fully face the reporter, his elbows perched on the chair's arms as his fingers entwined themselves in front of him, "what will happen after you publish all this? People will wonder how you found out about all this, some with ill intentions. They're going to try to get even more information out of you, like where Fries is hiding. They'll even torture you to get the information out."

Lois paled at that. "You can't be serious."

"Of course I am. But that would be a blessing compared what they'd do to me and Alfred, not to mention all the employees at Wayne Enterprises. Everyone associated with me will be hunted down and harmed, even killed as retribution. All of this because you wanted to publish a story."

That forced a scowl onto the reporter's face. "Oh, don't you tell me this is all for the greater good."

"I won't bother telling you that," Wayne replied simply. "But I will promise you this: I will destroy your career if it does come out. I will deny everything and sue you and the Gotham Star for libel. By the time I get done with you, that cushy job you have lined up in Metropolis will be gone and you won't be able to report on local dog shows, much less international correspondence."

Rage filled Lois, causing her body to shake. "You're blackmailing me!"

The man shrugged his shoulder at that remark. "If that's how you wish to see it. All I ask is that you considered sitting on the story for now."

"For now," she snorted with derision. "You mean forever."

"Perhaps, but if you really want to get petty, I can point out how I could have left you in the street helpless instead of bringing you back here, at the obvious expense of my identity." He paused to let that set in. "As I said, think about it."

Lois blew air through her lips, eyes looking up towards the...ceiling for lack of a better word. So what were her choices? Publish the story and become the focus of some very bad people with the possibility of torture involved and have a lawsuit on top of that from one of the wealthiest men in the world. Or...or sit on the greatest story to ever fallen in her lap and not get the Pulitzer that would certainly have her name on it if she wrote it right. Decisions, decisions...

"Fine," she sighed after what felt like an eon of thinking. "I do owe you for the save after all, but don't think you can keep bringing that up whenever you want me to be quiet, you understand? This is a one time deal."

"So long as we have an understanding," Bruce Wayne replied and damn it, he had that smirk on his face. She hated that smirk. "Now it's time to get you home. You don't want to miss work, right?"

"And how are we going to do that?" she retorted snidely.


	15. Relinquish His Control

With a _ding_, the elevator came to a stop before the doors slid open, allowing Thomas Elliot to become that much closer to his destination. He was dressed to impress, and maybe impose, slick and formal for some of the more uptight members of the Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors. In one hand he held a briefcase, which contained his "backup" so to speak.

In simple terms, the physical copies of his proposal.

He wanted this, no, needed this. Elliot Pharmaceuticals was a wealthy powerhouse on its own, but only so much of its resources could be relegated to this, his brainchild. Wayne Enterprises could shore up the shortfalls he had and while he didn't like it, personally, he was more dedicated to bringing his dream to life.

A quote from Aristotle would be appropriate here, to be sure, but he was too focused on the here and now to bother with that. Aristotle was not going to be helping him in the lion's den here. Only his brains, his wits, and his charisma were going to be of any use here, along with some backing from Bruce himself.

_You can do this, Thomas._ If there was one thing that could be counted on, it was that greed went a long way when it came to big, important businessmen deciding on whether they were going to back a project. Hopefully the dollar signs would blind them enough to give the OK. If the only misgivings he had came from Bruce Wayne on a golf course, then he would leave here a happy man.

And speak of the devil, his golfing buddy was standing down the hall, just in front of the boardroom. "Tommy!" Bruce greeted him loudly as he approached.

"Bruce! You're here on time! Slow night last night?" he teased, tightening his grip on his briefcase handle.

"I found someone who's bite was worse than her bark," Bruce replied with a shrug.

"Strategic retreat?"

"Strategic retreat," Bruce confirmed.

"Well, unfortunately I don't have that option in there," Elliot said, nodding head towards the boardroom. "It's sink or swim time. Wish me luck."

"I don't have to. I know you have a plan or two up your sleeve," Bruce encouraged, a smirk appearing on his face.

"Of course, I'm always six steps ahead," Elliot retorted, tapping on his forehead.

"Then you shouldn't have any problems in there," Bruce concluded, waving Elliot into the boardroom. "Go on and take a seat. We'll be starting soon enough."

"Right. Watch my back in there," Elliot said as he took a step into the room with which he would be spending an indeterminable amount of time outlining his grand plan. He searched along the long rectangular table and choose a seat seemingly at random. He didn't really care where he sat—it wasn't a big deal to him. _You can do this, Thomas. You deal with old farts like these all the time. Present your case, show that the benefits outweighed the costs and you'd have them in the palm of your hand._

He clasped his hands together and sat back in his seat, green eyes trained straight ahead. He did his best to show that he was calm and collected. He would not show any weakness or sign of fear. He waited as the room slowly filled with the loud and sometimes soft voices of board members.

He almost smirked at how many had heads full of gray hair. Many of these men were decades older than him. How did it feel to have to work for a man who was many years their junior? Especially if that man was Bruce Wayne, who was known to be the very model of a CEO?

As the board members situated themselves at the table, an occasional glance in Elliot's direction as they did so, they kept up their conversations until Lucius Fox walked in and headed for the head of the table, taking a seat there. "Good morning, gentlemen, ladies," he greeted loudly, indicating the beginning of the meeting. In front of him were a stack of folders, one of which was lying in front of him wide open. "First thing I would like to discuss today is the current Wayne Aerospace project, #WE9715. According to the brief I have, we're about to miss a deadline and we're over-budget. I want to know what's going on."

Immediately, a man sitting a couple seats from Elliot spoke up. "We've encountered complications with the cooling system. The propulsion systems and computers are running too hot and require a much larger coolant injection mechanism than we are physically able to use."

Fox looked at the file before him. "So there's a problem with the propulsion. Have you figured out where it is?"

"We're running diagnostics on the circuitry," the board member replied. "The problem doesn't seem to be there nor in the programs. We'll be checking the air vents next."

"So you're not sure," Fox summed up. "Unacceptable."

The man shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "Unless we consider increasing the size of the engine so we can just upgrade to the larger coolant pump, we're stuck at this crawl."

"But if we enlarge the engine, we'll have to rebuild it from scratch and go further beyond budget."

"That's the only choices we have at the moment and while I rather not have to rebuild the entire thing, it does have to be an option."

Fox grimaced before flipping the folder shut. "Find the problem and fix it quickly. You have until the end of the week; any further and we'll have no more time to further develop it."

Elliot hid his wince. Bad news right off the block—not good. Still, he was impressed with Fox's management of the problem. He could use a guy like that at Elliot Pharmaceuticals. Now if only Bruce would be willing to take his claws out of this class act.

Lifting another file from the pile, Fox opened it and scanned it quickly before saying, "Next is the Lynch Merger. I believe the latest proposal left much to be desired. According to my briefing, Lynch is still aggressively pushing this merger and is willing to sweeten the deal for us."

"We have enough accountants," one of the members said, an old man that looked as if he were on the verge of collapse. If there was ever a person that needed Elliot's invention...

"They have nothing to offer us," the man continued, "and they've always had a history of shady accounting practices."

"They still hold some prospective accounts we can't look away from," a rather attractive woman interjected. So the Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors wasn't completely full of old fossils. "There's an old Proctor & Gamble account they still use, which would give us some insight into their marketing finances and a profitable Gillette account."

"P&G doesn't want anything to do with us," the old man retorted snidely. "They haven't since Alan Wayne was around and I doubt they'd want to with Bruce." At this he paused before looking down the table to said person. "No offense."

Bruce nonchalantly waved it off. "None taken."

"Need I remind you we missed a chance at obtaining some accounts when Arthur Anderson went down," the woman pressed. "We shouldn't missed this opportunity again."

"I say we at least look at their new proposal," another, much younger, man voiced.

"Agreed," Fox concurred. "A vote will be held next week, so I strongly encourage all members to look over the proposal." Once more, he flipped the file shut and set it with away. Reaching for the next folder, he opened it, glanced at it, and then said, "Our next order of business is a proposal from Elliot Pharmaceuticals."

_Show time._

"Thank you, Mr. Fox," Elliot said as all attention turned towards him. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have an opportunity for you that you are not going to want to miss out on. Pardon me for sounding like one of those used car salesmen; my pitch might sound fake, but I assure you the product is anything but."

He got some nods, an affirmation he had their attention for the time being. He needed to keep it for as long as possible and impress them with the little time he had available.

"Can any of you tell me about cosmetic surgery?" he asked, purposefully avoiding making eye contact with the crypt-keeper further down the table. "It's okay if you don't know anything about it. What you need to know is that the demand for it is increasing. More and more consumers want to change the way they look from their faces to other parts of their bodies. It can get quite expensive if you're not careful. On that note, not everyone can afford it either. So what does a pharmaceutical company have to do with any of this?

"Recently, my research department has come across something that is going to revolutionize this common procedure. If I were to say to you that what I'm offering is essentially a facelift in a jar, would any of you believe me?"

The crypt-keeper turned to look at Fox and demanded, "What the hell am I listening to? This is a waste of time."

The woman from earlier countered, "I want to hear more about this." Turning to face Elliot, she said, "Please continue."

He had been expecting skepticism from the older members. Not to worry, he was about to rock their worlds. It also didn't hurt that the woman, whom he had an idea of who hired her, was on his side for the moment.

Picking up his briefcase and setting it on the table, he opened it and took out the physical copies of his proposal. "To make this easier to grasp, I've taken the liberty of summing up everything that my company has been doing with this project." He stood up and began walking around the table, placing a copy of the proposal in front of each director, Bruce Wayne included. "There's a lot of science in there and I warn you, it gets a little dry. So please turn to the middle of the third page."

He waited for his captive audience to do so, however begrudgingly some of them were.

"Allow me to explain what you're going to find there. At Elliot Pharmaceuticals, we have come across a substance that infuses with the skin and makes it malleable. Once it soaks in, you can change the very physical features of a person's face. I was skeptical at first when my researchers discovered this I assure you, but I have a patient who had a crooked nose due to it being broken. Using this substance, I was able to realign his nose with barely any effort, not to mention a distinct lack of pain. That convinced me we were onto something. The substance itself doesn't stay at the skin level. Depending on the amount of muscle present, it can reach the bone. Now, we're still investigating that, but so far there have been no negative consequences. We're still monitoring them, but for the time being, other than what I have told you, there hasn't been any developments to be concerned about.

"What I am telling you all is that we at Elliot Pharmaceuticals have found a way to put cosmetic surgery into a small jar that can be marketed at a price that most consumers can afford. Youth is restored like that." He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point. "Noses are no longer a reason to receive anesthesia for. Scars that are a permanent disfigurement are erased from history. Best of all, as I have mention, no discomfort or pain are involved.

"How many people do you think would want something like this? How many people out there are displeased with the way they look? Now how many of them would jump at the chance to change themselves with no pain, both in the physical aspect as well as the financial. No pain in the face or the wallet. How many people would you be willing to bet would be willing to purchase something like that?"

The board members were silent, some of which were engrossed with Elliot's proposal. It was awhile before one of them asked, "What sort of side effects have you encountered?"

"Other than what I have told you, we have encounter no significant side effects. However, I will give you this one, just because we haven't seen any doesn't mean there aren't any. We need more time and more intensive research, but if everything holds as it has been doing, what was discovered accidentally will change the way our world works." All this time he had remained standing as was a habit of his. It gave him a higher vantage point so that the board members had to look up at him. So long as he remained knowledgeable, they wouldn't hold it against him. It was as if he was teacher giving a lecture. No one held it against them.

"How long have you been studying this substance?" the same man asked.

"I'm glad you asked that. We've been working on this substance since the beginning of the year," the redhead explained. "There has been significant time placed into this, I can assure you."

"All that time and you haven't found anything?" the crypt-keeper spoke up incredulously. "How much more time do you need?"

"The end of the year, to make sure that there's nothing nasty here," Elliot said. "Don't you think it would a bad thing to put this out on the market and have it hurt people? We're in the business of returning customers, not maiming them so they don't come back."

"We're also in the business of not putting out suspicious products. How did you even come across it to begin with?"

"We're a pharmaceutical company, Sir, and we were in the process of inventing new anti-aging creams. As I have said, it was by pure accident, but haven't some of our greatest inventions been that way? When something like this falls into your lap, you pounce on it. Then you explore it, discover every one of its facets. Once you know everything there is to know about it, then you inform the rest of the world about it. You find all the nasty surprises so that no one else does."

"How extensive have your tests been, Tommy?" Bruce asked then.

"As extensive as they would be for any drug we do and as everybody here knows Elliot Pharmaceuticals has the toughest standards for drug testing in the world. We want to know everything about what we make before anybody else does. Not once have we been turned down by the FDA. Think about that. Not once. The tests themselves are rigorous and I don't think I need to explain why. We're the best in our business and there is a reason for that." Elliot panned his gaze over all the board members, looking each one in the eye.

"I'll admit, I am leery of this," Fox spoke up after a prolonged silence. "It's unconventional and there are a lot of unknowns. However, there is potential. I call for a vote on this proposal at the next meeting."

"I second that," the woman board member agreed.

"Then it's settled," Fox concluded, closing his folder shut. "The Elliot Pharmaceutical Proposal will be voted upon at the following meeting."

Elliot nodded and took his seat. He hadn't expected an immediate vote and would have been surprised if one was held. No, he had made his pitch and seeing how quite a few of them were still going through it, he had at least snagged a couple of them. The time until the vote would convince the rest. Until then, so long as no one asked the question why he was coming to Wayne Enterprises and offering to let them in on the ground floor, he should be expecting a positive vote by next week.

He knew these graybeards well; he had them on his own Board of Directors. If these ones were anything like his, he had nothing to worry about.

"On to the next item of business." Fox looked at the new file before announcing, "The Wayne Enterprise Project #WE0895."

Bruce immediately perked up at that. "How's that coming along?" he asked eagerly.

"Well, Mr. Wayne, we're getting close to a full-functioning prototype," Fox answered, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Some more calibrations to the operating system and some adjustments and I believe that in a few days it should be ready for testing."

"Very good," Bruce said, Elliot not surprised by the smile on his childhood friend's face. He had no idea what they were talking about, but didn't really care. So long as it didn't interfere with his objectives, he—

"It won't be long before it begins revolutionizing the world."

Elliot stopped his thoughts and frowned at that choice of wording. He kept silent, keeping his misgivings to himself. He wasn't entirely sure, but he could have sworn that he had said that same thing to Bruce when he had first given his proposal to him. Now why was he saying that now and about whatever #WE0...something, something, something was about.

It wouldn't be the first time that Bruce had hid something from him, but Elliot always found out what it was. He always needed to be ahead, six steps preferably. He prided himself on out-strategizing his friend whenever they played their childhood version of chess.

It was rare that Bruce could keep something from him. He didn't know what it was that he was up to, but that choice of wording...he couldn't get it out of his head. He supposed that this merited some...investigating.

He would not allow anything to derail his ambitions.

* * *

The office was busy as usual, yet Lois hardly noticed it. Last night's encounter with Bruce Wayne and his alter ego had left an impression on her.

The entire morning had been a blur. From the moment she had woken up in her own room to sitting on her bed for a solid thirty minutes before going about preparing for work, and the cab ride over, the reporter had been lost in thought, going over every last detail that she could remember of that encounter in the cave. The revelation of Bruce Wayne's identity had been shocking enough, but her following questions had only left her with even more. She still wasn't entirely convinced of his altruistic reasoning for running around as a vigilante.

So what was his real reason? Instead of polishing off her opinion piece, she had spent the rest of the morning researching just that, locking herself away in the archives room. She went after everything from his childhood, to a surprising disappearance from the Gotham scene, to a relatively quiet return and subsequent explosion of paparazzi stories detailing his every move.

Considering how much the tabloids dug into Wayne's life, it was pretty shocking to discover the early years of Wayne weren't so documented. There was a big announcement of the Wayne heir being born, a couple mentions of Thomas Wayne bringing him to work, and a quick jot of him attending kindergarten.

Then came the infamous Wayne Murders. Every Gothamite knew about it and just as quickly repressed it. It was a nightmare situation of a small family getting held up and subsequently killed. Even worse was that the then-eight year old Bruce had watched it all.

Lois didn't linger on that subject though; what she was more interested in was the following days after the murder. There were a rash of articles detailing the impact of Thomas and Martha Wayne's slayings, how it reverberated throughout the upper-class and the business world. Those were eventually pushed aside for any mention of the young Bruce, to which she found the boy had withdrawn from society. She didn't blame him for that action, but it had sent a flurry of rumors, all of which the dark-haired woman cast aside.

In the following years after that, there was always a mention of Bruce Wayne, usually in reference to the anniversary of his parents' deaths. The best description she got of him was when he was a teenager. An account of a sullen, quiet boy once more stood at odds with the carefree image he projected now. A little digging into his academic records showed he had decent grades, but nothing that indicated whether he was the shallow idiot or highly intelligent man she had met last night.

And then he just simply vanished. It was as if everyone had forgotten he was around. Lois had to cross-check every paper she could get her hands on to make sure it wasn't some mistaken. Yet, there was nothing. It wasn't until years later she found him mentioned again, specifically his assuming the role of CEO of Wayne Enterprises.

That's where red flags shot up before Lois' eyes. Nowhere did it mention Wayne's disappearance. It was as if everyone had just grown bored of him, refused to write about him, and then this big splash. No one could get enough about writing about him then. She didn't like this, not one bit.

It was then her stomach growled, stirring her out of her thoughts. Glancing to her wristwatch, she found she had damn near missed lunch. Well, now was good as any time to fix that. She needed a break from this Wayne research and a fresh set of eyes would do wonders for her. Leaving the archives, she headed to her desk, where she had left her purse.

As she neared her desk, she noticed a large gathering around it. More specifically it was around Vale's. Now what was going on there? Did the girl finally capture a picture worthy of being printed? It only took her the better part of, what, two, three years? Heh, this she had to see.

Altering her course slight, she made a beeline for Vale, who was preening at her desk, a wide smile on her pink-painted lips. Her head was turning from left to right as she looked at each person surrounding her, her hair prevented from sliding with her motions as it was held in a bun. However, when her eyes fell onto Lois, the dark-haired woman saw the redhead's smile become predatory.

"Hey Lois, where have you been hiding?" Vale greeted her, intentionally being loud. At this, the people around her stepped aside so Lois could get closer.

"Doing research, you know, like any journalist should. What's got you happy? Have you discovered the joys of a Snickers bar?" Lois returned flippantly. It wasn't often the redhead was happy around the office—or around Lois, at least. She curious to know what was going on.

Amazingly, Vale didn't let the jab affect her like it usually would. Instead, she grabbed a newspaper spread that laid on her desk and held it out to her. "I've been published," she proudly proclaimed. "Harry finally gave in."

"Really?" Lois was genuinely taken back by that. If she had been asked if she would have ever seen her reluctant lackey get published, she would have responded that Hell must've frozen over again. The woman just wasn't that good of a writer in her professional opinion. Numbly grabbing the offered paper, Lois skipped the headline and focused on the line beneath it, the one boldly printed as **By Vicki Vale**.

Well, well, looked like Vale had finally graduated out of diapers.

"Congratulations, Vicki," the dark-haired woman said as she began to scan the article. "I guess you earned it."

"Oh, you have no idea," Vale replied.

It didn't take Lois long to realize that this was a well-written piece, something she had assumed was outside of Vale's reach. In fact, it was written the way she would have done it had she penned it. Now that she thought about it, it seemed very familiar. Returning to the beginning, she began reading it, not satisfied with merely glancing at it. For some reason, she had the feeling of deja vu, as if she had seen it before.

And then it struck her. She had seen it before; she had written it! Looking to the top of the paper, she found it was the opinion section. Looking to the title, it was completely different from the tentative title she had been using. Returning to where she left off, she saw more and more of her own writing, spliced with a new sentence here and there. Slowly, the paper began to crinkle in her hands as she tightened her grip. Jerking her head up, she saw Vale smirking at her, a knowing look on her face.

That...that bitch. She stole her piece!

"It's fantastic, ain't it?" one of the men standing there asked, looking right at Lois. "I didn't know little Vicki had it in her."

"That's because she doesn't," Lois growled as she crumpled the paper into a large ball. "Who the hell do you think you are stealing my work?"

"It's not yours, _Lois_," Vale shot back, still looking triumphant. "That's _my_ name there, _mine_, not _yours_."

Lois dropped the paper wad in her hands and grabbed onto either side of Vale's desk, leaning closer to the redhead as she snarled, "Don't be cute, you two-faced snake. I know my writing, I live and breath it, so if there's anyone that can spot it, it's me. I have a copy of the exact same article on my computer and it'll take less than a minute to show Harry. You can kiss your future as a reporter good-bye!"

The threat did nothing to dampen Vale's demeanor. "No Lois, I don't think you will."

An alarm went off in the dark-haired woman's head. Of course Vale wouldn't blindly rip off her story; she would destroy any evidence that it was even there, proving it to be her original work. It wasn't like Lois kept extra copies of it outside of the office either.

"Lane, you're out of line," one of the other reporters spoke up then, interrupting the face-off. "Not every good story is yours, ya know. There's plenty of other people here that do just as good of work as you, sometimes better."

"You should walk away now," another added.

Lois scowled at them before turning to look back to Vale. "Well then, you better keep up the good work then. I would hate to be around when people begin to notice the drop off in quality."

Not waiting for a response, she turned and pushed her way to her own desk, snatching up her purse and storming away. This wasn't over, not by a long shot. Before she took off for Metropolis, she was gonna put Vale back in her designated place beneath her shoe. That was a promise.

* * *

Something was happening in his city and Carmine Falcone didn't like it. For years, he had been the real man in charge. Screw the cops, the judges, even the politicians. No one knew Gotham City like he did. No one.

So nothing pissed him off more when something that he couldn't explain happened in his city without his prior knowledge. Nothing angered him more than unexpected surprises.

Take this for example: some nut had taken out Moxon and close to downtown no less. Not only that, he used some kind of weird gun, if the press was to be believed, and froze Moxon alive. Now, he wasn't pissed off that Moxon was out of the picture. He didn't like the bastard, hated his guts even. There was no love lost there.

What pissed him off was that someone killed Moxon without his permission. He had final say if one of the crime bosses in this city got whacked and he would be damned if some upstart snubbed his rules. He didn't care if this asshole had an ice cannon or whatever it was. The Roman was the one in charge here and no one was above his rules.

It was one thing when he was conspiring with that guido Maroni to burn down the competition. It was under his watch and he knew about it. He had been in control for however long that disaster had lasted. Nevertheless, that had been blessed with his permission.

The attack on Moxon wasn't.

Falcone had been experiencing a loss of control ever since that bastard Lynns went AWOL. First he couldn't find him and then he couldn't be able to make an example of him. Someone got to the fire freak first and, if his sources in the police department were correct, the same person also got Moxon.

That was unacceptable. Completely fucking unacceptable. He already had his hands full getting his nephew out of lockup as well as managing his criminal empire, not to mention the heat coming down on him due to the link between him and the arsons. This "Ice-Man" needed to go down and go down hard. He didn't know what reason this guy had for killing Moxon and he didn't care.

Did he even have to say why he didn't care?

The problem that he faced was that he didn't know where this ice-age asshole was hiding himself. With the other crime bosses, lawyers, and the like, he knew where to find them. Knew where they worked, where they lived, and when they would be at which. With this guy, he didn't know shit.

At least with Lynns he could find dirt on him. With Maroni, he knew what skeletons were in his closet. He wasn't some rookie who didn't know which end of the baseball bat to hold.

Enough comparisons. Enough _thinking_. Now...now was the time to be _doing_. He was not going to be taking any of this shit lying down. Instead of waiting for that Ice-man or...or that Bat-thing coming down on him, he was going to be more proactive. He was going to be finding whoever was running around in his town, changing the way things were, and he was going to make examples of them.

There was going to be broken bones, severed limbs, and blood painted all over this town before he was through.

Reaching forward, he picked up the phone on his desk and pressed the speed dial. "It's me," he spoke into the phone's receiver the moment he heard it picked up. "I want the word put out: anyone trying to be a hero in this town has a short career. I want them all dead and I don't care if it's icemen, Maroni, or the goddamn commissioner. Kill them all."

He slammed the phone back down and sat back in his seat. It was done then. By morning, everyone in his employ would be on the lookout and armed to the teeth. If people thought Gotham was dangerous before, they hadn't seen nothing yet.

He would burn Gotham to the ground first before he ever relinquished his control over it.


	16. Person In Mind

Gordon felt like he was in a war zone. That was the only way he could describe it.

Over the past several days there had been more of those Ice-Man attacks. All of them were mob related. Unlike the Moxon attack, there were no crime bosses frozen alive at these crime scene, but there were men who were within the inner circles of these bosses. He couldn't tell you how many faces he had seen, of men he had worked to put behind bars, all frozen in permanent expressions of fear.

There was some part of Gordon that took some satisfaction in that. Here were men who had time and again broken the law and sneered at his attempts to bring them to justice. How many lives had they ruined before they were on the other side and being the ones victimized?

However, there was another part of Gordon that was appalled by it and this was the side of him that was strongest. Even if they were scumbags, they didn't deserved to end up like...like this! From what little sleep he had gotten, his dreams, or nightmares as he called them, were filled with these frozen faces, forever paralyzed in terror. As much as he liked them getting their comeuppance, this wasn't how it should be.

They had a legal system, however flawed and corrupt it could be, but it was what separated them from being animals. It was against the law for anyone to take the law into their own hands. Even if only bad guys were the targets, it needed to stop.

How long would it be before innocent people were targeted on purpose and not the result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

What was quickly becoming his last straw was an article he found in today's _Gotham Star_. He didn't know who this Vikki Vale was and he didn't care who she was. What he did care about was the fact that the article she published was _praising_ these vigilante attacks. Anything about the Bat-Man—or Batman as he was being called now—was shoved aside, no attention paid to him as all of it was on the Ice-Man. What was going through this reporter's head? It was bad enough that they had one vigilante running about, but now they had another one that was more lethal than the first and he was being _encouraged_.

This was like a game of Russian Roulette. Every day that passed with no arrest of the Ice-Man brought them closer and closer to when this lunatic's desire for harm turned onto people that weren't as despised.

Looking up from the newspaper in his hands, he demanded, "Who the hell is Vikki Vale?"

Glancing up, Bullock finished taking a sip from his coffee mug before answering, "Some new hotshot reporter. Quite the looker."

"I'm more willing to say immature," Gordon retorted as he tossed the paper off his desk. "The last thing any of us need is for someone to encourage this maniac we have running loose."

"Which one are ya talkin' about? The Spaceman or the Bat-freak?" Bullock asked.

"Both," Gordon said, his frustration getting the better of him. "At the moment, I want our 'Ice-Man' under wraps before he gives anyone else ideas to follow his lead. At least with the Batman, we haven't had a corpse yet. This one gives me the chills and not in a good way."

"Nice pun there," Bullock pointed out, a smirk appearing on his scruffy face.

"It wasn't intentional," Gordon said. "What is your progress so far?"

Since the first freeze attack on Lynns, it had fallen under Bullock's caseload due to the fact that their prime suspect in all the arsons were involved. Bullock had accepted quite readily now that Gordon thought about it. Then again, Bullock had a strong sense of justice, much like himself. He may bend the rules more than Gordon liked, but his heart was in the right place.

"We've been checkin' out any place that has large refrigerators, like where we found Lynns, or where there's a high electric bill," Bullock answered, glancing down to his pad of paper on the older man's desk. "So far we got nada. Wherever this guy is holin' up, we haven't been able to find it."

"Meanwhile, a growing number of Gotham's underworld is being put on ice," the commissioner grumbled as he placed his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. He rubbed at his temples to alleviate the strain he was feeling.

"You okay there, Com'mish?" Bullock asked.

"Nothing that an Advil won't fix," Gordon admitted with wary resignation. "What is happening to this city?

"I'd like to say it's goin' to hell, but that would be the understatement of the year," Bullock replied. "First we're burnin', now we're freezin'. Did the Cubs win the World Series or somethin'?"

"Any ideas on how you're going to apprehend this man?" Gordon asked, ignoring the sergeant's remark.

"Workin' on it," Bullock responded. "You know what would make this easier? If we knew where this nut came from, or better yet, who he is. That would narrowing things down from lookin' through the whole city for him."

"Well, he had to get that suit from somewhere," the commissioner said. "And that gun. Who would make a gun like that? What has the lab found out? How is he carrying a portable freezing gun and what is he using to fuel it?"

"Lab geeks are still workin' on it and they've been told that whatever they find out, they tell it to me first," the large man replied as he stood up from his seat. "I'm gonna get on back out there, maybe shake some mobsters down and see what they know. There's a reason he's targetin' the mob. Maybe they killed his family? Wrecked his life? Whatever it is, I'm gonna find out what it is."

"You be careful out there, Bullock," Gordon warned. "I've been getting word that Falcone has his boys out in force. All of them are armed to the teeth and none of them will think twice about shooting a cop."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll keep an eye out," Bullock said dismissively. "Ya know, at this rate, there's not goin' to be anybody bribin' officers. Maybe we oughta look away this once."

"You and I both know we can't do that," the older man replied solemnly.

"Yeah, but thought I might put it out there," Bullock remarked. "Catch ya later, Com'mish."

Gordon frowned, but said nothing. He wasn't going to say out loud that he had had similar thoughts. This was nothing but trouble...and speaking of trouble. There, just as Bullock's girth moved out of his sight, he could see Gil Mason back in uniform. His suspension was up and there was nothing he could do to keep that man out.

Still, like it as not, he couldn't be choosey about the company he had to keep. He needed as many hands as he could, even if it came from a cop like Mason. At the very least, Mason was keeping his distance from him, but how long would that last?

And speaking of needing hands, where was Essen? Last he heard, she wasn't in. Was she checking out a lead in this dangerous climate? The two of them were going to need to talk soon. The Batman was moving to the back burner and he was going to have to ask her to start focusing on their freezing case. The greater of the two evils was going to have to be dealt with first.

The only question was would this evil devour them first?

* * *

The massive computer screen was divided into four images, each showing black and white footage of the same room. The room itself was a laboratory, the walls lined with computer equipment. In one corner of the room was a large, sealed vat with the word **CAUTION** stamped onto its sides. There were rows of tables lined in the middle of the room, each covered with beakers, bunsen burners, computer monitors, papers, files, and other laboratory equipment and safety gear.

Each image was of a different view of the lab. The top left image was a bird's eye view of the entire room; the top right provided an angled view of a large metal door, the entrance. The bottom two images were of different angles, each from opposite sides of the room.

Sitting in front of the computer, Bruce Wayne watched the images carefully. There were scientists working throughout the lab, keeping to their stations. Each face blurred into another as they weren't the focus of the dark-haired man. Adding to that was a Wayne employee acting as a tour guide with a group of tourists gathered around him. It was thought that this room was one of the safer labs, one that they could provide an inside look into what went on in the research department. Bruce hadn't seen anything wrong with that at the time.

And then one of the computer terminals went haywire, flinging out sparks. This set off a chain reaction as each computer terminal began mimicking the the first, a couple of them flat out exploding. The people in the room erupted into a panicked frenzy and rushed for the door. As the door was swarmed, a side of the vat on the other side of the room blew out, sending out a cloud of gas. A large puddle of liquid was spreading out all over the floor, but it was hidden beneath the gaseous cloud; you really had to look at the edge of the cloud to make out ripples of the spreading liquid. There was a further increase of panic of the people, but they all managed to squeeze out of the room.

That was when Bruce paused the feed, just in time for a man to appear on screen. Staring at the man, he studied his frightened features. "Computer: zoom in," he commanded.

Instantly, a white outlined box appeared on the man and blew the image up. Automatically, the image was fitted for the size increased, revealing the man's identity to be that of Dr. Victor Fries. He looked just like the employee picture of him, from his receding hairline to his glasses. His large forehead was more evident at this angle, wrinkled by the terror he must assuredly be feeling.

Tapping a button, the image disappeared, returning the screen to its previous setting. Hitting play, the security footage played out. The door was sealed before Fries could get out, which left the man to ram into it and begin pounding his fists on it. He was shouting something, but unfortunately there was no audio, so his words were lost. Slowly, the gas from the vat spread over the room until it reached Fries, the man disappearing into it soon after.

Hitting pause once more, Bruce rewind the image back and stopped it back where Fries was pounding on the door. Once more, he focused on the image.

"Watching black & whites again, Master Bruce?"

Normally Bruce's mouth would twitch into a grin upon hearing Alfred's inquiry. This time he didn't. "Not this time, Alfred." Waving a hand up to the monitor, he explained, "This is security footage from Wayne Enterprises, Lab #2. This is the accident from two years ago, the one that transformed Victor Fries into the man he is today."

Alfred stood beside the chair, looking up at the screen. "I seem to recall that unfortunate event," he commented stoically. "If I may be so bold, Sir, why are you watching this?"

"Because after this, Fries disappeared until Garfield Lynns stumbled upon him. This event was the catalyst for everything he has become, his entire outlook on life. When I met with him, he mentioned how he was trapped. I fell under the impression he felt it was on purpose."

"On purpose, Sir? Whatever gave him that impression?"

Bruce's eyes flickered up to the shot of the front door. There was a small window, which Fries was staring into. Faintly, he could see a shadow on the other side, though the shadow's identity was indecipherable. "I would say because he's staring right at a person on the other side of the door. Unfortunately, the door is reinforced with safety protocols and locks that cannot be deactivated in the event there's an accident in the lab."

"What makes you so sure he's staring at someone?" Alfred pressed.

Bruce reached up and tapped a button, causing the screen to go black. "Because the person he's staring at is me."

Alfred seemed stunned at that admission. "My word," was all he managed to say to that.

"However," Bruce continued as he held both hands over the keyboard, his fingers flying over the keys, "that only physically changed him. What caused Fries to take up his ruthless vigilante campaign was the Batman." At this, the dark-haired man twitched the corner of his mouth up. Faintly he had Lois Lane's words running through his head as she proclaimed the name without the hyphen. "He heard how Batman was fighting against crime and even scaring off the Russian mob boss, Mashkov. That made Fries decide he wanted to help as well, but that he would make sure the job was finished."

"So you created this vengeful Mr. Fries," Alfred summed up.

"In a manner of speaking."

That was when the butler raised a hand and rested it on the younger man's shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. "Do not let this get you down, Master Bruce. It is hard for every parent to watch their offspring grow."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at that. "I doubt you could compare this to child-rearing."

"If you say so."

Returning his attention to the computer, Bruce continued his typing, this time bringing up what looked like test results. "If I were to have a child and he turned out like this, then this one is brilliant. I've been analyzing a sample of the ice he creates from his gun and the results have been intriguing."

"In what way, Sir?"

"Judging from the molecular structure of the ice, it's chemical in nature." At this, the screen lit up as different elements appeared. "Each element by itself has different properties, but when put together, they create a powerful coolant, one that Fries himself created while working on the cryogenic project for Wayne Enterprises. He's basically weaponized it, yet the mechanism that creates the beam escapes me. I'm not sure whether it's a chemical bonding agent, or a mechanical trigger."

"How dreadful. It's a shame that such ingenuity has to be used for violence," Alfred lamented. Bruce agreed silently with that sentiment. Yet there were other matters that needed his attention. He needed to get these results to Gordon tonight; that would hopefully shrink the commissioner's search for Fries, wherever he was hiding.

In the meantime, he had another lead to follow. Typing once more, he brought up a search for the Nora Fries Foundation. In response, the webpage for it appeared on the screen, announcing an upcoming charity gala. There were links all over the page that led to various works the foundation was involved in, but none of them interested the billionaire.

"Nora Fries, Sir? Any relation to Mr. Fries?"

"She was his wife," Bruce answered. "They were married for five years when Nora contracted cancer; she went terminal soon after and died approximately three years before Fries' accident. The foundation was created in her name."

"How lovely. I assume he's still involved?"

"Not as much as he was before the accident, but he remains fully invested in it." Raising a hand, Bruce began rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I believe I need to take a closer look."

Alfred was staring at the screen as well. "They are having a charity gala soon."

"In two days," the younger man read off. "Plenty of time. Alfred, make a donation to the foundation. I'm sure that'll get us an invitation."

"Of course, Sir." There was a pause. "On that note, I have a message for you from Ms. Julie Madison. She wishes to inform you that she won't be seeing you anymore."

"Pity. I liked Julie," he replied, his voice kept in an emotionless tone.

"I suppose then that Bruce Wayne will be going to this gala alone."

Bruce was quiet for a moment before he shook his head. "No, that's not Wayne. He's not the kind of man to sulk after a break-up. He'll need to bring a last minute date with him, much like this invitation."

"Very well, Sir. I will go arrange a dinner companion for you."

Bruce waved his hand at the butler. "No need, Alfred. I have just the person in mind for this."


	17. Now Prove It

Alfred drove the limo with practiced ease, never letting something as trivial as potholes in the road disrupt the relatively calm ride. He was a man of many talents.

This allowed Bruce to keep an eye on his fellow limo rider. Sitting to his right was the lovely Lois Lane, openly loathing every passing second with her arms crossed over the lovely black dress she wore. Loose, deep red straps wrapped around her upper arms, exposing her shoulders to the world. It was a pretty dress, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by the woman's mood.

She was angry, though Bruce was definitely sure it wasn't at him. In the five days since he dropped off her unconscious body at her flat to now something had riled her up and she'd been seething about it for every single hour thus far. Her eyes were attempting to burn holes into the seat directly in front of her. So far the dark-haired man had kept his observations to himself, but the lingering silence would have to end soon. They would be reaching the gala soon and he couldn't be strolling around with a woman that would rather bleed dry half the people there.

"You've been very quiet," he commented softly. "Any reason?"

Lois snorted. "Oh, I have plenty of reasons, Wayne. Where should I start? Some hack of a writer steals my work and passes it off as her own, then gets elevated to "Gotham's Rising Star" status because of it. Everyone at the office thinks I'm just jealous, but then they couldn't write halfway decent stories even with the entire thing completed. And now the only way I can top this redheaded bitch is to expose who Batman is and I can't even do that." Finally, her eyes shifted over to him, giving him full exposure to her scowl. "Any more stupid questions?"

Bruce just shrugged his shoulders. Aside from that last bit, none of it was worth his concern, though the direction they were pushing the reporter was alarming. Any more frustration and Lois might just write the damning story to restore, in her eyes, the natural order of things. That was not a path he wanted her to take.

"So then, is this hack of yours invited to the gala?" he asked calmly, not letting her words appear to get to him.

Again, another snort. "The Nora Fries Foundation is notorious for keeping reporters out of their activities. Some guy from who knows when once wrote a bad article on them and they pretty much shut the press out ever since, allowing only sympathetic reporters to do stories on the foundation, usually in an extremely controlled setting. Of course, that all hinges on the foundation actually finding one of those reporters."

"Then here's your chance to get an eyeful of what they're doing without their set up."

Lois rolled her eyes at that. "Oh sure, I can see it now. A snob party hosted by a charity that claims to help the sick and dying by inviting the very people who barely understand the word suffering; yeah, that's front page material. Why didn't I try coming sooner?" She then eyed the billionaire as she asked, "Why are you bringing me here anyways?"

"Bruce Wayne needed a date," he said with the shrug of his shoulders.

Turning her head away from the billionaire, the reporter grumbled, "Oh great, now he talks about himself in the third person. That's not going to get annoying."

A smirk worked its way onto Bruce's face. "I'm sure you also know about the connection between the late Nora Fries and her former husband, Victor. Or isn't he called the Ice-Man now?"

Upon his words reaching her ears, Lois whipped her head around and stared at him. "You've got to be kidding me!" she exclaimed before her brain began making the connections. "Same freaking last names," she muttered to herself before refocusing on him. "So you're here to check for any links or something?"

"Or something," Bruce replied as he chose to stare in front of him. "When we last met, Fries mentioned this charity. I've done a little research and something does not add up. I need a closer look at them, thus why I'm here. It'd also help if I had an extra pair of eyes," he added at the last second.

"So what am I supposed to do? Look for something suspicious?"

"Just something that's out of place. I don't care what it is, if it sets off your suspicious, tell me. There's more to this fondation than meets the eye."

Lois was silent for a moment. Then, "You know, the next time you want undercover work done, find someone else. I could be running down a more interesting lead instead of playing amatuer detective. You should try Vale, I'm sure she'd be very willing."

Again, he smirked at her sass. "I'm sure she would, but I wanted the best. That still is you, right?" Bruce knew what he was doing by prodding the dark-haired woman. He had noticed the sudden increase in stories by newly-discovered Vicki Vale, not to mention her rather open support of Victor Fries' activities. It was as if this rival of Lois' wanted to be her exact opposite, something that Lois had jumped head first into by writing a rather supportive article on Batman. Very curious figures to be championed by two reporters.

"Of course I am," she growled menacingly. Right then the car came to a smooth stop, a rather rambunctious drone reaching them. "Let's get this stupid thing over with."

Bruce remained quiet at that, instead mentally preparing himself for what was about to happen. Feeling ready, he opened the car door and stepped out, causing a flash of hundreds of cameras.

Bruce wasn't fazed by this, merely smiling a charming smile at the crowd of paparazzi. Taking a step to one side, he held out a hand to the doorway and waited for Lois to reach out and take it. She took the offered hand as she slid her legs out and planted her high-heeled feet on the ground. Slowly, Bruce assisted her out, which caused another blinding flash from the cameras. He could hear a soft murmuring, but there was nothing intelligible for him to pick out. He assumed they were talking about his date and the fact it was someone other than the woman he had on his arm the last couple of times. That's what had happened the last dozen of times he switched women and there was no reason to doubt it this time.

Once she was standing, Bruce dropped Lois' hand, replacing it with an offered elbow. She graciously took it, wrapping her own arm with his and the two began walking down the red carpet, which led to wide open doors. A nearby valet would shut the car door shortly so the next limo could arrive.

The dark-haired couple remained silent as they strolled up to the building's open doors, merely offering smiles to the cameramen and women until they crossed the threshold.

"You handled that well," Bruce murmured her as they walked through a small lobby, heading towards another set of open doors. "Have you done this before?"

"Never," Lois replied as she shook her head, blinking her eyes rapidly. "I was just copying you. Everytime you walked down the red carpet, you're always smiling."

"Good to know you've been taking notes."

Reaching the second set of doors, they passed through the doorway and entered a large room. Bruce wasn't too impressed with the set-up and decor, but then he had always been surrounded by much more lavish set-ups. Lois didn't seem all that impressed either, like she had already seen it once and that was enough for her. About the only thing of note was a large round circle in the roof, a dome of glass extending upwards and showing the darkened night sky beyond.

"So what's first?" Lois questioned as she continued to survey the room. There were people all over the room mingling with each other. The men were in their best suits, creating a large black mass only injected with specks of color from the various colorful dresses of the women.

"We need to find the CEO, Ferris Boyle," Bruce replied in a higher octave, scanning the crowd with cheerful eyes. "He should be somewhere here."

"That's real helpful. How about you figure out where he is before I have to start making appointments with chiropractors. Heels hurt my feet."

"Really? Don't you wear them every day?"

"I don't stand in them all day," she retorted. "How about you try doing that? I'm sure you would just love it."

Plastering his face with an inviting grin, Bruce merely began leading his irritated date into the crowd. They weren't going to find Boyle by standing at the entrance all night. Mingling was a requirement at these events, not to mention he would have to rub elbows with a few people here. Such was expected from him as a businessman.

"Bruce?"

Coming to a stop, the billionaire turned his head and widened his grin. "Tommy! What brings you here?"

"I could ask the same thing," Tommy replied, taking a sip from his glass of champagne. "You usually don't show up to these."

"I don't?"

A humorous grin appeared on the redhead's face. "Allow me to rephrase, you don't come to these kind of things too often, especially Nora Fries. Usually I find out where you were in the morning paper, a woman always involved."

"Lovely," Lois drawled as she gazed at the other man. "Is there nothing else you do, Wayne?"

"Well, from my experience, he does the typical billionaire playboy activities," Tommy remarked. "Though, what those are depends on the typical billionaire playboy. Speaking of which, I believe I have heard your voice from somewhere. Would you care to enlighten me, Ms?"

Lois continued to stare at him before answering, "I'm his eye candy for the night and I can assure you the only thing we do that makes the paper in the morning will involve one of my shoes being rectally extracted from his ass."

Tommy let out a guffaw. "Where do you find them, Bruce? I'm really liking this one." He emphasized his point with a wink. "But even eye candy has a name."

"I guess I need a refresher course on manners from Alfred," Bruce lamely joked, adding a chuckle. "This is Lois Lane of the Gotham Star. Lois, meet Tommy Elliot. We go a long way back."

"Lois Lane of the Gotham Star, eh? Is it me or are you finding women with big names more to your liking?" he jested with Bruce. However, he was quick to correct, "And it's Thomas. Thomas Elliot." Turning to face Lois as he reintroduced himself, a friendly smile appeared on his face. Lois merely raised an eyebrow at that unimpressed, choosing to remain quiet.

That left Bruce to fill in the silence. "Not sure who you're referring to, Tommy. Can't recall the last 'big name' I was around, but I'm sure they were important at some point. But enough about my date, where's yours? Or are you flying solo?"

"Oh Bruce, you should know by now, my date is always your date after I finesse my way around you," Tommy chuckled.

"I can see why you two are friends," Lois interjected with a drawl. "Now how about you finesse your way into getting me a drink, hotshot? Or are you just as useless as Bruce here?"

"Hitting below the belt already and we barely know each other," Tommy replied. "I think I'm in love. So tell me Bruce, what are my odds looking like?"

Before Bruce could even utter an answer, Lois responded, "Your hand has a better shot at showing you action tonight. A word of advice on 'finessing' women: talk to them." Then, giving the room a cursory glance to the people in the room, she added, "Though I get the distinct feeling you don't actually date women worth talking to."

"I suggest we follow what the woman says," Bruce said, tightening his arm against the reporter's. "Consider this me saving your manhood, Tommy. She's a man-killer." Despite his words, it was painfully obviously he didn't get Lois' piece of advice. Bruce Wayne wouldn't after all.

"And I know exactly who's at the top of my list," Lois grumbled in response.

Tommy let out another chuckle before reaching out with one arm and snagging a glass of champagne from a passing tray. Holding it out to Lois, "I hope this shows I'm not as useless as Bruce here. You have quite the spirit, and mouth, Ms. Lane Don't let it go to waste."

"Thanks for the advice," Lois drawled, sarcasm dripping from her tone before she took a sip of her drink. "I think I'll actually take you up on it. C'mon Wayne, help me stop wasting my mouth."

"Certainly." With a nod to his friend, Bruce said, "Tommy," before leading his date away. All the while, Tommy watched them go with mirth, though his eyes seemed to drop a bit lower for a moment. It didn't take a genius to know where the redhead was looking.

"Be sure to call me with the good news when it comes," he called after them.

Bruce chose to ignore that, though Lois wasn't one to let such things go unsaid. "Good news?"

"Business venture, nothing you need to worry about." He paused for a second. "If it goes anywhere, I'll give you the scoop."

"Appreciated, but not necessary." Lois took another sip then grimaced. "Be sure the next time you see him to tell him that he has crap tastes in champagne."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at that. "That's not his champagne."

"And there's at least three different vintages roaming about the room. Like I said, crap taste."

_Hmm, how observant._ He had only been kidding about using Lois as a second pair of eyes. He really didn't need her outside of being, as she had put it so eloquently, eye candy. He too had made note of the other drinks being passed around, along with the appetizers, the number of servers wandering around, where the exits were, and the number of single women lying in wait for a stray man to wander by. Half of him wanted to lead Lois by them to see just how catty things would get. If her verbal sparring with Tommy was any indication, it would be quite a sight to see.

Bruce's mind was quickly torn away from that line of thought when he finally caught sight of his target talking with a couple of men who seemed to follow every word he said. Ferris Boyle had reached that age where he was desperate to keep his youthful features, yet was failing to do so. He had obviously given up on keeping his hair one color as his sideburns were a light grey. At least his anti-aging creams were fighting off the wrinkles, but there was only so much time it would buy.

"Tell me Wayne, do all of these shindigs have at least some passable food, or am I going on a diet tonight?" Lois suddenly said, interrupting the dark-haired man's thoughts. "Be careful how you answer, you might make the morning paper."

"Hmm? Food? Yeah, it's fine," he said absently as he began making his way towards Boyle.

He didn't get too far as Lois pulled him to a dead stop; that was quite a feat for a woman in high-heels. "If you would excuse me, I'm going to sample the buffet. I'll smooze around with all the other Harvard grads here until you find me."

"Actually, there are more Yale and Princeton grads here," Bruce pointed out.

"Same difference."

And with that, Lois released her grip on his arm and sauntered off, leaving Bruce by himself. He watched her for a moment, watching the sway of her hips much like Tommy had done minutes ago. Turning back to look at Boyle, he found him still engrossed in his conversation. A server walked by carrying a tray of drinks at that moment. Picking one off, Bruce straightened out his posture before walking up with a cheerful smile on his face.

As he drew closer, Boyle's eyes flickered over to him, causing him to pause in mid-speech before he loudly greeted, "Bruce Wayne! It's a pleasure to see you!"

"Nice party ya got here, Ferris," Bruce returned the greeting, ignoring the other two men standing next to Boyle. Boyle promptly told them he'd be back with them in a moment and took a few steps away, leading the billionaire away.

"I have to say, I was surprised you wanted to come," Boyle admitted, sounding pleasant. "You've never come before, so you can imagine the stir you created when that donation of yours showed up at the office."

"Felt like expanding my philanthropist portfolio," Bruce replied, raising his glass to his lips, yet not drinking a drop. No one would pay attention to his drink despite a drop never leaving it. People would just assume he had and never be the wiser. "So I decided what the heck, why not the Nora Fries Foundation?"

"And you made a wise investment," Boyle informed him. "With your money alone, we can send more food to all those starving children in Africa. Unfinished medical facilities can now be completed and staffed with the best doctors on the continent with full access to medical supplies. That was a good deed you've done."

Bruce shrugged his shoulders. "Just doing my part. Though, I do have to admit I had my reservations."

"Really?" Boyle looked curious at this. "About what?"

"I had heard some rumors about the foundation being involved in some less than savory activities. I—"

"Bruce, Bruce, Bruce," Boyle's interrupted him, shaking his head in disappointment. "That is not what the Nora Fries Foundation is about. Off the record, I'll admit we did have some shady dealings, but that was due to a rogue employee embezzling funds. I wasn't aware of it until months after it started, and when I learned about it I turned the man over to the police. Unfortunately, because of that one man, it's soiled the fine reputation the foundation has built, smearing everyone of my employees by proxy."

"So the foundation isn't involved in illegal arms trafficking? Or was it drugs?"

"God no!" Boyle exclaimed. "And for the record, it was diamond smuggling."

"I don't think that makes it any better, Ferris."

"You're right, you're right," the other man admitted. "No matter what it was, it still haunts us, haunts me. All of the good work the foundation has done gets swept away because of it, but I can promise you this: as long as the Nora Fries Foundation exists, we will always do good works. We'll do it not because it's the right thing, we do it because it _is_ what we do."

"I must say, that makes me feel much better," Bruce said, looking visibly relaxed. "You can definitely expect me to show up at the next gala."

"That's great, Bruce, but why the next one? You can donate at anytime."

A smirk appeared on the younger man's face. "I have to get something with my money, right?"

* * *

Lois had to say the food was pretty decent. She had better, but it was at least something she could gorge on and enjoy it somewhat. She had also gotten her hands on a better vintage of champagne, though that wasn't saying much. She was starting to suspect these rich folks didn't know a good booze even if it smack them upside the head.

Just another sacrifice she had to make for unfortunately finding out Bruce Wayne's secret. If she had known that she'd basically be dragged into conscription, she would've stayed unconscious.

"So, you're Brucie's new plaything."

And then there was this.

Turning away from the buffet table, Lois found a rather annoyed looking redhead. Seriously, what was with this guy and knowing rich redheads? If there were only two in the city, Wayne had managed to find and befriend both of them. Giving the other woman a once-over, Lois ask, "And who might you be?"

The redhead tilted her head up so she could look down her nose at the reporter. "The name's Vreeland. Veronica Vreeland. A close, _personal_ friend of Brucie's."

"Good for you. Why should I care?"

A smirk appeared on Veronica's face. "Because you're only temporary. I have, and always will be, with Bruce. With you he'll just toss aside when he gets bored of you."

"Wow lady, why don't you do us all a favor and go sleep with the guy? You know, assuming you haven't already. You sound as if you want to have his first born, so why don't you spare the rest of us your babble and go do it?"

The smugness disappeared from Veronica's face in an instant, being replaced with rage. "How dare you speak to me like that!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were so sensitive. Please, let this humble reporter extend her deepest apologies for affronting your weak sensitivities."

For a moment, Veronica looked lost, blinking her eyes as she tried to figure out whether Lois was being sincere or sarcastic. Ultimately she nodded her head and accepted the "apology." "So you're a reporter?"

"That's right."

"So what are you doing with Brucie then? Why would he know such a person like you?"

Wow, Red really didn't know how to talk to people, did she? "I would think that was obvious," Lois answered with a shrug of her shoulders. "'Brucie' invited me. Since there weren't any _Sex and the City_ reruns on, I accepted."

"Oh, you watch that too?" Veronica perked up at that, for once seeming interested. "I have to say, Mr. Big was such a hunk."

"I was more into Stanford Blatch myself."

Veronica was quiet for a moment before saying, "Well, you have some..._interesting_...tastes."

Another shrug of her shoulders. "What can I say, I'm an interesting girl. Probably what caught 'Brucie's' eye, don't ya think?"

Immediately, the redhead's eyes narrowed. "Is that what you think? I'll have you know I've known Bruce Wayne longer than you've been alive!"

Lois raised an eyebrow. "So you're over 30?"

"I beg your pardon?!"

"No please, don't beg. I don't think I want to see that. Maybe some of the other guys here, but that's something you should keep between them and you. Which means away from me."

Veronica's mouth dropped open in outrage, but made no sounds. Was it wrong for Lois to feel proud about that? _Hmm...nyah._ Red was just too easy. The reporter hadn't had to dig into her bag of venomous retorts just yet.

And as it turned out, she wouldn't get a chance to as Bruce suddenly appeared next to her. "Having fun?" he asked her, oblivious to his alleged-friend.

"Oh, a blast. You know, you should bring me to more of these. Hopefully the food and company will be better at the next one; what do ya think?"

Bruce chuckled at that. "Perhaps. Though if it's not too much to ask, how about we go dance? That should entertain you, yes?"

Lois' eyes flickered over to Veronica, who still had her mouth wide open, though for a very different reason now. Smirking, the reporter answered, "That sounds great. Lead the way." Hooking her arm with Bruce's, she allowed him to lead her away from the soundless Veronica.

Over the chatter of the rest of the room, Lois could hear music being played in the background. Seeing that she was being led to a place where other couples were dancing, she also found the source of the music as there was a live band playing nearby. Reaching the dance floor, she turned to face Bruce, resting a hand on his shoulder as he took her other hand in his. His other hand came to rest on her lower back a second later. It only took them a moment before they launched into familiar steps.

"I saw you talking with Ronnie," Bruce said, breaking their silence. "Sorry if she said anything mean. She can be very catty when she wants to be."

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Lois replied drily. "Honestly, she needs work. I didn't break a sweat with her."

"That's a first. I've seen her make several people cry."

"Let me guess, she's going after some self-conscious celeb, or some poor girl that's in over her head. I'm not seeing much of a challenge there."

He chuckled, his deeper, more Bat-like voice leaking out. Then he returned it to the more cheerful playboy's. "I suppose you didn't need my rescue then."

"I didn't, but Red back there did."

A smile found its way onto Wayne's face and this time Lois felt it was genuine. Probably the first of the night. But then it disappeared all too quickly as he returned them to business. "I spoke with Boyle earlier."

"Terrific. What did you ask?"

"Not much. Just what was with the rumors surrounding the charity."

"And?"

"He claimed he had no knowledge that it was going on and that it involved diamonds."

Lois considered that answer for a moment. "Okay, so what does that mean?"

"You want me to start with its inconsistency or the gaping holes?"

"Whichever you prefer."

"Boyle is known for being very anal when it comes to his work," Bruce began explaining. "Makes sense when you consider his background in accounting. In fact, he's probably one of the most anal men in Gotham when it comes to the charity's balance sheet. There's no way he wouldn't have spotted embezzlement, especially for the millions that had to go out for diamonds. The only way that money leaves the foundation is if Boyle knew about it and approved it, which is what most likely happened."

Lois was quiet at this, slightly amazed by Wayne's deductive reasoning. It was a shame she wasn't as familiar with Francis Boyle. Wait, was it Francis? Hmm, that didn't sound right...

"So you think this guy's lying," she summarized. "Why?"

Bruce didn't bother shrugging his shoulders. "Most people lie about the illegal activities they're involved in; Boyle is no different. What he is involved in will take a little more digging around."

"That's assuming he's not into the diamond trade, right? I take it you don't completely believe him."

"Not in the slightest."

Again, Lois fell silent. She was eating this all up, much like those mystery novels she had hoarded back in high school. And yet, she found herself wanting to do something else. "I think we've talked enough shop for now," she announced.

"Is that right?"

"It is. Now shut up and dance, Rich Boy. If I remember your call right, you said you'd show me a good time. Now prove it."

* * *

For the record, I've never seen an episode of Sex and the City. Fortunately Wikipedia has, otherwise I never would've found out about that Blatch guy.


	18. Strange Crap

He cared not for the neighborhood, what part of the city it was in, or who happened to be in the area. All that mattered was who was in it, a person for whom justice had waited far too long for.

If no one in this city had the courage to do it, then it fell upon him. He did not feel burdened by it—no, far from it. He would show all the spineless cowards who portrayed themselves as pursuers of justice how weak his next target truly was. Like everyone else, he would find himself in a prison he rightfully deserved.

It was an absolute.

Fries was not unaware of what was happening in the city. He knew that the criminals were arming themselves, preparing for a war they would not be negotiated, bribed, or intimidated out of. He knew the suit he wore would protect him from whatever firepower they had to throw at him, but he also knew that with enough pressure, enough punishment, even something like his suit could be compromised. Like a twist of fate, a single bullet fired in the right direction and striking the right place could neutralize him in an instant.

A single disruption in the suit's ability to refrigerate his body could potentially be lethal for him. He was still confident in his suit's prowess, but this wasn't like the other strikes he had made against organized crime. It wasn't going to be like Lew Moxon where he had the element of surprise in his favor.

This one knew he was coming. He may not know when the icy touch of his justice would reach him, but he knew it was coming. Fries may not have the element of surprise on his side, but he knew there were other ways one could launch a successful campaign against their foes. Sometimes audacity was what you needed to achieve success—and there was nothing more audacious than striking at the man who fashioned himself as the true ruler of Gotham City

Fries was not a stupid man. Attacking the home of Carmine Falcone was not going to be a simple task because the man simply known as "The Roman" was not a stupid man either. The den of his corruption was going to be heavily guarded and with weapons that, if used just right, would halt his quest for justice. Going in through the front gate would invite that kind of attention.

Fortunately, the sewage system of Gotham was quite extensive. One of the various passageways of filth ran underneath the Falcone home. This was where he was now, under the belly of the beast, right where it was weakest.

When he announced his arrival, he would be behind those weapons meant to protect this fortified castle and deep within the Falcone leviathan. They would have to turn those weapons against themselves in order to try and stop him and try they would. But that was as far as they would get—try.

Aiming his gun overhead, he pulled the trigger and fired the freezing ray, coating the ceiling of the tunnel with a layer of ice. Next, he aimed the gun towards the floor where a shallow river of water trekked into the rest of the sewer system. In his head, he made the various calculations necessary to achieve the effect he was going for.

He pulled on the trigger and the shriek of the ray filled the tunnel once more.

* * *

If there was one place a man was to feel safe, it was supposed to be his home. That was a belief that Falcone held for years and one that he put into practice. His home was one of the most secured buildings in all of Gotham and that was saying something. Not even banks had the kind of security he had. The cops themselves called it the "Falcone Fortress" and to this day no one had been able to bug the place without him finding out about it first.

Anyone who did manage to get through the system didn't last long. After what information they knew was tortured out of them, they were rewarded with their efforts with prime real estate in the Gotham Bay and given a lovely pair of concrete shoes. Then the appropriate changes to the system were made and life would go on.

One of the most secured rooms in the place was his office, followed only by his bedroom. Within his office was an assortment of material that no amount of threats or bribes would be able to save him from prison. As if that would happen. The police would have to get in here first; pigs had a better chance of growing wings and flying than the cops did of getting in here.

So far, no one had ever been able to get a search warrant for his home. It paid off to be "good" friends with all the judges in this town.

However, as more of these ice attacks increased, the more Falcone began to wonder if maybe he need to do something with all of it. On the off chance that this Ice-Man did get to him, it would give the police all the probable cause they needed to come in here and find his dirty work—that is if they could get past the doors and if they were desperate enough, they would. Explosives would certainly get them past the doors, but wouldn't they have to get some kind of approval for that.

He wasn't worried. All the mooks that had gotten their asses iced had deserved it if they hadn't spotted a walking spaceman in their midsts until it was too late. There was no way that wacko with a jar on his head would be able to bust in here without anyone seeing him. All of his boys had been instructed to shoot this man on sight, blow him to pieces if they had to. There wasn't to be any scuff marks on his front door or it was coming out of their hides.

He was the safest person in this whole city. You'd have to be some kind of nut to try to come after him here.

Sitting back in his chair as he fiddled with an unlit cigar between his fingers, his comforting thoughts stopped, causing him to frown. He could have sworn that the room was...shaking? Glancing at a nearby coffee cup, he saw the dark liquid rippling. And it was getting worse. What was this, an earthquake?

* * *

On the ground floor, the guards could only watch as a round portion of the floor began to rise unnaturally. It was the weirdest thing any of them had ever seen. The bump seemed to be growing as it continued to rise and then all were shocked—some even letting out cries of surprise—when a spike of ice burst from the bump, rising out of the floor and up to the ceiling.

The carpeting ripped and some of the floor began to cave in as the large icicle continued to grow. One guard close to it tripped as he stepped backwards, falling onto his rear, but unable to take his eyes off the sight before him. Then something appeared, clinging onto the side of the icicle as it pierced into and through the ceiling. It was a man in some kind of suit, a jar over his head and—wasn't this the Ice-Man?

Red-colored lens captured him in its gaze and the guard could only stare back in horror at the sight before him. The icicle stopped growing as the man released his grip on the trigger of his gun and...and...how had the guard not noticed that the Ice-Man was firing it?

Then the gun was aimed at him. The guard didn't get a chance as his world became still, frozen in ice.

* * *

Finishing off the coward on the floor, Fries turned his attention towards the other guards. He fired blast after blast at each man he saw, mercilessly freezing them in their terror.

Bullets ricocheted off his suit and he directed his gun in the direction of the shots. Though he fired back, his would-be assailant dived out of the way and into a hallway. Ice blocked the hallway off as he didn't stop firing until it was completely closed off.

More footsteps signalled that others were approaching. Fries was more than ready for them as they came into sight, their automatic weapons raised and aimed at him. He did not give them the chance to fire as he froze them in their places. The high shriek that fell into a dull hum filled the room as five of Falcone's men were permanently halted.

Now where would someone like Carmine Falcone be hiding? From the blueprints he had gotten his hands on, it would stand to reason that he would be on an upper floor. A high vantage point from which to observe the city he claimed as his own.

Aiming his gun upwards, he fired at the ceiling and covered it with a sheet of ice. Grabbing onto the spike of ice he had made, he fired his gun at it and began to increase its size again, rising higher and into the ceiling, crashing through it.

He was greeted by more men who were not as hesitant as the ones on the ground floor. They began opening fire on him as soon as he made his entrance. His reinforced helmet began to vibrate with the number of bullets hitting him, prompting him to return fire. There were cries and screams, but they were soon silenced.

However, only a portion of his attackers had been dealt with. There were others who were blocked off by the spire of ice he had created, the ice itself shielding him from their fire. It was thick enough that the bullets were making little headway against it , making sure he was well-protected from harm.

From around the icicle, he stuck his gun out and opened fire on them. Their screams meant nothing to him as hardening ice silenced them like their ill-fated comrades. Stepping away from the icicle, Fries took in his surroundings. It was time to start a more thorough search of the premise.

Falcone would not hide from him.

* * *

"What the hell is going on?" Falcone demanded as two of his most trusted bodyguards burst into his office, slamming the doors shut behind them.

"We're under attack, Mr. Falcone," one of them said while the other locked the doors.

Falcone stared back incredulously. "Are you pulling my leg?"

"No Sir. The attacker came from beneath the floor on some giant spike of ice," the bodyguard informed him. "It would be best if you activated the security system before he gets here."

Without thinking, Falcone did just that. As his second bodyguard pulled away from the locked doors, two metal doors slid over the entrance, sealing them in. The windows were shuttered off by metal sheets, all of which were ten inches thick at least. They were now safe from whatever was going on out there, yet Falcone still wanted answers.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded to know. "What do you mean he came through the damn floor? And with what? Some kind of ice...?" He trailed off as he realized what he was saying. Ice? Did that mean that Goddamn Ice-Man was here?! In his home?!

By now the two bodyguards had taken their places between his desk and the doors, their guns held at the ready with the safeties off. Neither said a word, but at the moment Falcone was not in the mood for light conversation.

So this was how it was going done. One of those freaks in the news grew the balls to come after him. Well, it was time to show them and the rest of Gotham who was the top dog in this city. This Ice-Man asshole was going down, even if he had to do it himself. He pushed himself away from his desk, getting out of his chair and heading towards a cabinet that displayed an assortment of weapons. He opened it and pulled out a shotgun. He then busied himself with loading it and, once he was done, headed back to his seat and took his position at his desk, the shotgun placed on top of the flat surface.

Alright Ice-Man, if you wanted to play, he'd play. He'd crack open that space suit with a single shot, that's what he was going to do.

Time ticked slowly, none of the three men speaking or taking their eyes off the entrance. Each one was waiting for the first sign of trouble, as doubtful as if was. Falcone was willing to bet money that nobody was getting in here until he deactivated the system.

They all jerked as they heard a thump against the metal doors. After that it was quiet, but now all three guns were raised and aimed at the doors. Falcone licked his dry lips, waiting and watching for something, anything to happen. For a good while, nothing did until there was another thump.

With this thump though, the metal of doors bulged inwards. The men tightened their grips on their weapons as there was another thump on the doors, the metal barriers bulging towards them further. With the next thump, the doors fell off, crashing onto the floor. Ice covered the metal barricade, cracking under the force of the booted foot of the monster that had kicked them open.

His bodyguards opened fire immediately, but their resistance didn't last long as a shriek rang out, one and then the other bodyguard frozen alive in icy cocoons. Falcone was still beyond shocked. His security system, it...it...it was taken out so easily. That shouldn't have happened, can't have happened. But now that his boys were useless and he was all alone. Alone. That thought jolted the Roman out of his stupor as he raised his shotgun. However, before he could fire it, a blue ray of light struck the gun and turned it into a chunk of ice, his hands trapped in it.

With a cry, he shoved himself back, but he would not go far. The cabinets behind him stopped his push and now he was stuck between a rock and an Ice-Man.

"There is no escape, Falcone," the Ice-Man stated, his voice disturbingly monotoned.

"What...what are you?" he gasped, the feeling in his hands completely gone. He...he couldn't feel his hands!

"I am the reckoning that you have long feared and cowered from. It has been much too long since you trembled in fear, waiting with bated breath and cold sweat as your inevitable doom approached. In your stead, you have sent hundreds of men to their graves." The Ice-Man paused, his stony face seemingly growing with anger. "Tonight, that all comes to an end."

Falcone's teeth were chattering from the cold that was enveloping him. "W-wait. Wait! You d-don't have to d-d-do this. W-w-w-we c-c-could-"

"Work something out?" the Ice-Man interjected. "I have heard these words before; do not insult my intelligence any further than you already have. There will be no working it out."

Falcone was shaking his head. "W-we can! Don't d-d-d-do th-this. Don't! P-p-p-please! M-m-mercy!"

"Mercy?" the man repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. "Ironic that a man notorious for offering none now begs for it. If I were a kinder man, I may have granted your request." He then aimed his ice gun right at the trembling mob boss. "But I am not that man. At long last, the icy hand of justice falls upon you, Falcone."

"NO!"

A shriek was the last thing he heard as a blue light filled his vision. And then nothing.

* * *

Power was a fleeting mistress. At one moment it favored a select few before smiling upon others. A fall from grace was expected, inevitable even. Before Fries stood such an example; Carmine Falcone had believed he ruled this city with an iron fist. He was untouchable to any law devised by man. Yet, he was wrong; Fries had made sure of that. Frozen perpetually at his weakest moment; yes, that was a fate quite fitting for such arrogance.

Fries wasn't one to admire his work. This was not art, it was punishment, plain and simple. For once though, he took a moment to gaze upon the justice he had administered. If he had emotions, he would say he felt satisfied. He was making a difference in this dreary city, the driving force of change.

And yet, his mission was not over. There were other evils that dwelled in this urban jungle; Falcone had been the king of this jungle and would most likely know who his fellow predators were. A search of his personal papers and belongs would soon reveal the next perpetrator that deserved true justice.

Heavy steps carried him to the former mob boss' desk, revealing an orderly arrangement of belongings. The only sign of a mess was at its center, where the man was reading some documents. "Alright Falcone, what were you reading?" Fries spoke aloud, picking up the many scattered sheets. Holding them up to his face with one hand, he glanced over the first page before pushing it aside with his thumb. The page floated back to the desk as Fries continued to check the other sheets. From what he could make of them, they were expense reports, though they were very brief with their subject. Falcone had been moving quite a bit of money around.

The second and third pages faced the same fate as the first page as they were discarded. It wasn't until the fourth page that something caught Fries' attention. One of the itemized transactions that received Falcone's dirty money was the Nora Fries Foundation. It was probably just the fact that the foundation's name was here that attracted his eye. Falcone would spread his money as he saw fit, even going as far as to claim he was helping fight off poverty and disease despite his reputation for murder. It was nothing.

But then, there was another transaction between the two, only this time the foundation was sending Falcone money. _That_ triggered an alarm inside the cold man's head. Why was there money switching hands? If there was any involvement, it would only go in one direction and never from the foundation to a corrupt man's greedy hands. There was something wrong here.

Crumpling the sheets of paper in his hand, Fries held onto them as he dropped his arm down to hang at his side. Turning around, he stormed out of the room, ignoring the various ice sculptures that had been formerly men. They were of little consequence at this time and Fries had more important things to do. He needed to hear more about his wife's charity and learn what business involved such a reputable organization and pure scum.

But first, a little redecorating was in order.

* * *

The wheels had to skid before they came to a screaming stop; and when the brakes did work, Bullock was pressing on the pedal as hard as he could. That had not been good. It was never good when there was ice on the road.

Putting his car in park and leaving the engine on, Bullock got out and whistled at the sight before him. The ice on the street was just the icing on this cake and hey, he made a pun there. Forgetting about that, what captivated his attention so much was the appearance of the Falcone estate.

It was like someone made an ice sculpture out of it. There were enormous spikes of ice jutting out from the building, trees that were now giant ice cubes, and let's not talk about how blue the grass was. The gardeners were going to have a field day with all this.

Reaching back in his car, he turned the key in the ignition and shut the engine off. Putting his keys in his pocket, he casually strolled his way to the remains of the front gates. He was really starting to feel the cold now. Good thing he was still wearing his trench coat. He had been sweating in it before, but now it was like Christmas in July.

"You think the Ice-Man did all this?" he heard a nearby officer mutter.

"Who knows?" Bullock spoke up. Oh wow, he could see his breath. "What I do know is that a lot of people are going to be laid off. Politicians mostly. What do you guys think?"

Hmm, there was a flinch from a cop over there. Looked like someone was getting a handout from Falcone, though not anymore. If they were all lucky, the Roman was dead in there, not that Bullock was cheering about it. It was good riddance to bad rubbish was all.

However, he would have loved to have put some cuffs on the bastard. That way he could have seen his face. What a waste.

"So has anybody gotten in there?" he asked.

"All entrances are blocked off. Take a guess with what."

Yeah, Bullock had a guess or two. Was on the top of his head. It wouldn't happen to be ice, would it? No, no, don't applaud him. It was a lucky guess. Right.

"So we're goin' to have to wait until the stuff melts or somethin'? How long is that goin' to take?"

"We have firefighters trying to axe their way through it. They just started using their hoses and they're starting to get the front doors open."

Like warming up ice on a windshield only with a thousand pounds of force behind it. He wondered how long it would take.

The answer turned out to be a couple of hours. Despite the clear sky and the sun shining down, the ice was not melting as fast as normal ice would. That was funny to Bullock, but not ha ha funny. More like strange funny. Very strange. Whatever this stuff was made of, the sergeant had a feeling that it wasn't just water in it.

Those thoughts followed him as he entered into the building that was definitely a hundred times larger than his apartment and a thousand times fancier. The ice kind of ruined the fancy part along with the ice cubes that had gangsters in them. They all looked spooked in Bullock's opinion. Now where was Falcone? He was in the middle of all this, right? Had to be. That Ice-Man was going after every crime boss and lackey in this town and Falcone was the biggest fish in the pond.

It was a bit of a surprise that Falcone was attacked so soon. Usually people would take his minions out first, then the middlemen, and then the closest confidants before going after the big cheese. That's how it worked in the movies anyways. Guess this guy didn't watch any.

So in the interest of public safety, Bullock led the way around the place, checking room after room on each and every floor, searching for survivors first of all and second to find Falcone, wherever he may be. The Ice-Man had been very thorough. It seemed like every person in the building had been frozen alive, bringing up memories of Lynns and the other mobsters in Bullock's mind.

Eventually, they found Falcone. The room might have been some bomb shelter or something because the windows were boarded up with metal plates and two large ones laid on the floor. Something strong had broke through them, that was for sure. Really strong. There were two more human popsicles in front of a desk and another one behind it.

Further scrutiny led him to find that the man behind was indeed Falcone. Bastard looked like he was in the middle of pissing his pants. Great, now he'd never be able to cuff him and send him downtown nor would he ever be charged with the whole list of crimes he was guilty of. The sergeant wanted to take off his hat and hit it against something. Here was not a good place to do that. Evidence and all that jazz.

"Somebody tell Gordon that we need more space at the morgue," he ordered, not turning away from the sight of Falcone. Was that a shotgun he was holding? Looked like it and that meant Falcone didn't go down without a fight. The expression his face, though, took away that theory. _God, this is so messed up._

This wasn't the first time he had asked himself what was happening to Gotham. First the Bat-freak and now this. Where did it end? When would it end? All this thinking was not his style. He liked the hands-on approach more, usually his hand balled up into a fist and decking some schmoe unlucky enough to be in the way.

That wasn't to say he was stupid or anything. He was smart enough to get into homicide and that's no easy feat.

Taking his eyes off Falcone, he began looking around the room, trying to ignore the icicles that were hanging from the ceiling. The place looked spick and span here, nothing out of place. His eyes then fell over something that was not in place. Papers? What were papers doing on the floor? Everything else on Falcone's desk was miraculously untouched so why were these papers on the floor? It seemed...funny he guessed he could say.

Crouching down, he pulled a pen out and used it to shift the papers around. Hmm...he couldn't read any of this. He'd need to take a closer look, but he didn't want to risk contaminating anything. The last thing he needed was his fingerprints on something that could be potential evidence.

"Let's get someone in here to collect this," he said out loud. "In fact, let's bag anythin' we can. It might be important, it might not be, but let's not take the chance."

"Are you sure?"

"Did I stutter?" Bullock stood up and faced the nearest cop that had followed him up here. "Tag it and bag it. All of it. So help me, we're gonna find something useful in this mess."

Spinning around on his heels, the sergeant lumbered out of the room. This whole place sickened him. Already he was missing the good old days where cops and thugs waged war on each other. It was a lot more familiar than the strange crap that was going on now. Perhaps he needed to move somewhere else, where no costume freak swooped in and complicated matters.


	19. Unexpected Matter

Vicki Vale had woken up on Cloud 9 this morning. Everything had been going her way as of late. She had finally been given her dream job as a journalist, Lois Lane was damn near being outcasted by everyone in the building and in readership, and now she was the rising star at the Gotham Star. Nothing could bring her down.

Nothing except a small photo of Lois Lane on the arm of Bruce Wayne in the Leisure Section.

The heavenly light that had seemed to flow down on her had darkened in an instant. How...how had that _bitch_ land a date with the most eligible bachelor in Gotham? It was unfair! It was her moment! Her stardom! _She_ should have been on the billionaire's arm, not that has-been!

Vicki's anger ended up eating up the rest of her morning, leaving her mere minutes to apply her make-up, arrange her hair, and dress herself in something passable. Lane just had to get back at her, hadn't she? This was a low blow, even for her. The redhead snarled as she caught another glance at that wretched picture. At least now she knew just who she was going up against; it was better to find out now than when she least expected it.

To cap off her crappy morning, she barely managed to make it to work on time. With a huff, she collapsed into her chair, barely taking notice of her purse dropping to the ground and the lack of photographs on her desk, a brand-spankin' new computer resting on it instead. It was the latest model, one that made every other computer here look like a dinosaur. That did little to calm her ire as she stared at the dark-haired woman at the desk in front of her.

No way was she letting Lane get the best of her.

Getting up, she stormed the small distance around her desk and right up to Lane. "How did you of all people land a date with Bruce Wayne?" she growled threateningly.

Lois merely glanced at her before returning her eyes to her computer, her fingers typing methodically on her keyboard. "And good morning to you, Sunshine," she replied without a care.

Vicki refused to be ignored. "Don't be cute, Lois; it doesn't become you."

"I know damn well I'm not cute; that's your department. Now, if you had said good-looking, you'd be a lot closer."

Vicki chose to remain silent at that, glaring her hate at the other woman. Lois tried to ignore her, but eventually couldn't take the daggers that were being thrown in her direction. "Either you've changed your sexual preference, Vale, or you're doing your best to annoy me. I sincerely hope it's the second one because I don't swing that way."

"Answer. The. Damn. Question."

Lane finally looked away from her computer and turned in her chair to face the redhead. "I didn't do anything, he called me. And since you're doing your damnedest to run me out of the office, I didn't have anything else to do, so I accepted. Happy?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Well, too bad. You're a hotshot reporter now—you don't get to waste time being jealous about another woman's relationship. You better get to work on your next 'masterpiece' before your sudden lucky streak runs out. I won't always be here to bail you out with brilliant journalism, so you need every last second you can get to be the top dog here. Now if you don't mind, I have to get back work. Shoo, shoo, bye-bye now."

Vicki curled her hands into fists, but resisted the overwhelming urge to claw Lane's eyes out. It took her several moments before she spun around and stomped back to her desk. This wasn't over, not by a long shot. Lane may have drawn blood this round, but the next would belong to Vicki Vale; she would make sure of it.

"Oh and Vale," Lois called over her shoulder, a smugness in her voice the indicated she was smirking. "How many A's are in 'reprisal'?"

Bitch.

* * *

_Just look at what is happening to Gotham. Criminals are at long last being brought to justice. No, it is not before a jury or judge, but these men for years have long ignored the what the law represents. Good, honest people respect what the law is and how it holds this city together, but that same law becomes nothing more than shackles that prevent our fellow police officers from capturing and subjecting these men to their just punishment._

_They simply don't care._

_So why should we care about men that do not respect the law? Extreme action is needed to restore the law to its rightful place. The actions taken by the Ice-Man—and to a lesser extent, the "Batman"—against mob bosses such as Carmine Falcone and Lew Moxon are what this city needs, ney, demands. No more do these men slip through the cracks of our broken judicial system. They are now trapped in an inescapable prison that ensures they won't trouble the good people of Gotham._

_I approve of the Ice-Man and encourage him to continue his fight against the scum of Gotham._

"Such rot, Sir."

Bruce didn't so much as twitch from Alfred's disapproval. They had both been reading the article on the computer, something they had taken up as the younger man prepared himself for the night's patrol. Tonight a brand new piece by the newly-anointed Vicki Vale had been running through the presses. It was an opinion piece much like her first one, though Bruce had to admit there was a drop in quality. Still, that wasn't something to get in his way of the message it sent.

Had he seen it a week earlier, Bruce would have simply ignored it; the opinion of a journalist mattered little to him. However, he had been seeing a similar sentiment that Vale had been expressing here, specifically the treatment of the city's criminal element at the hands of Victor Fries.

With every new attack, there were cheers of support. The people wanted Fries' tactics of killing these men—that's what this all was. Behind the sweet words of "prison" and "punishment," these men were dying. It was abhorrent to him. Fresh bile worked its way up his throat every time he saw these growing shows of support, no matter the source.

And yet…

"It would seem the people of Gotham are in agreement with this kind of action," Bruce commented as he continued to stare at the large, digital letters on his screen. "Perhaps Fries is onto something."

As much as it sickened him to say it, the young man could see where the other man's approach was seen as acceptable. Every night he encountered thugs looking to make a quick buck, whether that be from purse snatching, robbery, or racketeering. Every incident ended with those thugs lying bleeding at his feet with an assortment of injuries and a waiting jail cell at the GCPD. But they would get out before too long and resume those same activities as if they hadn't ever been stopped, only a hell of a lot more cautious. He had already encountered several repeat offenders.

So why not kill them and be done with it?

At the same time as he thought this, Bruce felt something at the back of his skull. It was like a part of his mind refused to consider the option. Yet, his tactics weren't as final as Fries'. How could they be when at most he had injured whereas his counterpart ended.

"If there's one thing I have come to learn about people, it is that they are of a fickle sort," Alfred stated then. "So long as they see results, they care little for how it is done. Show them how it gets done and they reject it."

A twitch threatened to become a grin on Bruce's face. "Sounds like a meat-packing plant."

"Or those vile creations that pass as 'Hot Dogs'."

The two fell silent with their thoughts until Alfred expressed a growing worry within the younger man. "Eventually, he will run out of criminals to stop. And when there are no more criminals…"

"There are only innocences," Bruce finished, a scowl appearing on his face. "And what's to stop him should he turn on the rest of Gotham?"

"Very little, I would imagine."

One of Bruce's hands curled into a fist. So he may not be the chosen protector of this city—that title was clearly being thrusted at Fries' feet—there was still a use for him. _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes._

Who guards the guardians?

That would be him. It would have to be him, even if everyone else disagreed. He wanted to be resolute in this because he could not condone what Fries was doing. For that he would always be a pair of watchful eyes from the shadows.

No, that was wrong. Fries was killing people no matter how it was looked at. Even if the results he was obtaining were more...effective...life was too precious to be simply thrown away, no matter who's life it was

This needed to end now.

Pushing himself out of his chair, he reached behind his head and pulled on his mask, disappearing into the Batman once more. Purposefully, he walked away from the computer, heading to a catwalk that led to another part of the cave. This one was merely a plateau which held a sleek, black car facing a dark tunnel.

It was time to get to work.

* * *

The security surrounding the house had been quite lax and easy to overcome. Men in dark suits lay unconscious throughout the estate grounds and were sure not to be waking up any time soon. The next obstacle had been locating a window to enter the house, also an easy task without the worry of being spotted. The Batman was inside the estate now, roaming the halls as he searched for potential threats.

There were two such threats at the end of the hall. They both had their backs to him, engrossed in a conversation. They were speaking in Italian, their deep voices creating an echo as the bounced off the walls. Batman approached them, his silent footfalls hiding his presence. Just as he was within arm's reach, he shot his hands out, grabbing both men by the sides of their heads. In one fluid movement, he slammed their skulls together, an audible crack occurring, and then released them. The two men collapsed to the floor unconscious.

He didn't stop there. Sweeping through the house, he found another man in the kitchen eating a late night snack. The Bat had promptly grabbed him at the back of his head and slammed his face into the counter, another knockout blow. In another hallway he once more crept up behind another guard. The man had been favoring walking next to the wall, which made it quite easy to reach out and slam his head against the sheetrock and watch him drop.

The last man was in the foyer, which was a rather large room with a staircase on one side. It was wide open and the guard had positioned himself right in the middle of the room. If Batman had turned to killing, that guy was a sitting duck.

Instead, he opted for a tranquilizer dart. It was the one device on him that looked like a gun. Each dart was loaded with a horse tranquilizer and was sure to knock out an adult man for six hours. Aiming the tranq gun at the man, there was a rush of air and the dart pierced the guard's neck. He fell to the floor unconscious less than a second later.

Batman silently mounted the stairs. He scoured the second floor, finding it emptier than the previous floor and the outside—just as he expected. Maroni only had two guards up here and they were both stationed outside whatever room he was in, be it his bedroom or study. At this time of night, he would most assuredly be in the study.

He had been keeping an eye on this house for quite some time, the same going for the other mob bosses. A series of various utility problems ranging from cable outages, air conditioning repair, to security system inspection had allowed him the chance to plant various bugs and cameras to keep an eye on these corrupt men. It was how he knew where all of Maroni's men were, their patrol routes, and their habits. While he had originally placed the equipment to gather evidence against these men for their various schemes, he had quickly learned they didn't bring their work home with them. Their paranoia concerning police and federal agency wiretaps had taught them to keep their home and business lives separate.

Maroni's study was shut tight on the other side of a sitting room. It was this sitting room where the two guards were, sitting comfortably on couches facing each other. They were talking to each other, this time in English, and looked as if they wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. The Batman knew better. One of the men would soon get up and make a quick patrol of the upper floor and it would be then he would strike.

Standing outside the threshold that led to the sitting room as he peaked in, Batman reached into one of the many pouches and pulled out a bola. He held it at its center where the cords met. The weight of the metal balls was heavy as they dangled from his hand. Holding his arm out, he began rotating his arm and wrist, whirling the balls through the air.

And as he expected, one of the guards stood up from his seat and began stretching. In an instant, the Bat stepped into the doorway and threw the bola at him. The bola flew through the air until it made contact with the guard, the cords wrapping around him until the heavy balls impacted his body, one of which smacking him in the face. He dropped the ground harmlessly.

That just left the last man as he sprung to his feet, whipping his head towards the doorway. His hand was pulling out his gun, but froze when his eyes fell upon the Batman. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed.

Batman didn't waste time. Pulling out a bat-shaped shuriken, he sent it flying at the guard, striking his hand and knocking his gun out of his grasp. Letting out a cry of pain, the guard grasped his injured hand. Taking quick steps to close the distance between them, Batman lunged at him, his arms outstretched in front of him.

Just as his hands grabbed onto the man's shirt, the Bat's pushed them into the couch behind him and caused it to topple over. The two men fell over the flipped-over couch, landing on the guard's back with the Batman on top of him. Pushing himself up, Batman drew a fist back before slamming it into the man's face. Pulling it back again, he held the fist as he looked down on his opponent, his unconscious form lying still.

While it had been loud, stealth was not needed at this point. Standing back on his feet, the Batman swept towards the door and sent a powerful kick at the oak barrier. The doors swung open, revealing an opulent study with Maroni seated behind a large desk. The man was staring at him flabbergasted, frozen in place.

As he strode through the doorway and headed right for the Italian, the man snapped back to reality and made to pull out a handgun. With practiced ease, Batman had a shuriken in his hand and sent it flying through the air, coming into contact with Maroni's hand as he was midway in drawing his weapon. He cried out in pain as his gun was knocked out of his hand.

As the Italian clutched at his throbbing hand, the Batman used those seconds to close the distance between them, stopping right in front of his desk and leaning his scowling face towards the other. When Maroni looked up, he gasped in fright, flinching away from him. Lashing out with a hand, the Bat grabbed the man's dress shirt and twisted it, pulling the man towards him and holding over his desk. "Salvatore Maroni," he growled.

"Wh-what do you want?" the man stammered out.

"Give yourself up, _now_."

The fear that had covered Maroni's face evaporated in an instant into one of disbelief. "Why should I do that?" he demanded.

"If you don't, it could cost you your life. Just ask Falcone."

"What, are you in with that wacko in the space suit?" Maroni scoffed.

The Batman kept silent, instead noticing the Italian holding himself up on his desk with his hands. With his free hand, he crushed his fist on top of the other man's hand, causing him to howl with pain. "No, I'm not. But if you give me a hard time tonight, you'll wish I were."

"And what? Kill me yourself?" he shot back, his face twisted in agony despite his tough talk. "You don't have the balls."

"Don't test me. This is _not_ the night for it."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before, but you know what? I'm still here. The other guys? Not really. If you could call 'in pieces' there. Sure you took me by surprise, but it's going to take a lot more than idle threats to convince me of anything," Maroni sneered.

He recognized exactly what Maroni was doing. The casualness of his words, the drawn-out pauses between each sentence; he was stalling for time. "I wouldn't hold my breath for help to arrive. No one will be bothering us until the sun rises. We have all the time in the world to show you just what I'm capable of."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Maroni replied, eyes flickering off him for a second.

He had missed someone. No matter. Grabbing Maroni with his free hand, he twisted his body around and threw the mob boss through the air. Maroni let out a surprised yelp before he crashed into his arriving guard, sending them crashing to the floor.

Taking his time as both men groaned on the ground, the Batman made his way up next to them and raised one of his feet into the air. He then stomped on the guard's face, knocking him out cold and eliminating the last of the threats in the house. Bending down, he grabbed Maroni on either side of his suit jacket and hauled him up to the air, forcing him into the nearby wall.

The Italian groaned as his head lazily rolled to one side. For a moment, it was as if he had blacked out until a low chuckle slipped through his lips. "Can't you do any better than that?" he taunted.

Batman's face darkened as he raised his fist again, holding it high so that Maroni could see it. For a fleeting moment, he wanted to. This man's arrogance disgusted him to no end. He knew the Italian's history from beginning to end and not one part of it redeemed him in the slightest.

This must have been how Fries had to feel when he stood before Moxon and Falcone, the fate of each man at his fingertips. He had chosen to end their lives easily, so easily in fact the Batman could do it too. He already had Maroni helpless in his hands and an assortment of maneuvers he could use to end his threat once and for all.

He wanted to do it. His entire body shook as he felt the urge to break every bone in the man's face. His raised fist trembled in its place. And then he relaxed.

He couldn't do.

As much as the Batman wanted to say he chose not to do it, he knew better. It was as if something was holding him back, preventing him from ending this scum's life. It angered him and at the same time relieved him. Though he couldn't kill, he honestly wouldn't have to.

"Knew you didn't have the balls," Maroni grunted, a snarky grin growing on his face.

"That's because I don't have to," he calmly replied. "I don't have to do anything at all, like get in the way of Fries when he storms in here, and he will. And when he does get here, you'll wish I had killed you as you stare through a foot of ice as the policemen you bribed scratch their heads in confusion. That would be a fitting end for you, don't you think?"

"You...you wouldn't let that happen." The fear returned to the Italian's face, something that pleased the him immensely.

"Why wouldn't I? There's nothing in it for me to save you. In fact, I'd say the 'Ice-Man' was doing this city a service. Perhaps I should let him know where you're at and that your security is in great need of an upgrade."

"What do you want from me?" Maroni said desperately. Anything to save his hide.

"Turn yourself in. If you're in custody, he won't come after you."

An incredulous look appeared on the Italian's face before it twisted into anger. "How would you know that? Huh?"

"I don't, but what other choice do you have?"

Batman released his hold on the mob boss and let him drop to the ground. Staring down at him, he put special emphasis on his next words. "The choice is yours: jail or death. Pick one. I doubt we'll be seeing each again, regardless of your choice." Turning on his heels, he strode out of the room, not waiting for an answer from Maroni. He had made his point and now the decision was out of his hands. If Maroni had any sense in his head, he'd hand himself over to the GCPD with a bow tied to his head. Otherwise, he would have to forcibly turn the mob boss in, by any means necessary.

* * *

Fries watched patiently as he listened to the dull ringing from the phone. One ring passed. Then two and three. Finally someone picked up and Fries nearly smiled as he heard the familiar voice.

"This is Dr. Gregory Belson, make it quick," the man snapped. Gregory had always been in a rush since the day the two had met at Wayne Enterprises. Whereas Fries had stayed with the company to his own detriment, Gregory had moved on to work for GothCorp, along with a few other colleges of theirs.

"You haven't changed much, Gregory," Fries greeted warmly.

There was a deafening silence before Gregory nearly whispered, "Victor? Is that you?"

"It is. It has been a long time, has it not?"

"Yeah...yeah it has. I thought you were dead!"

"So had I, dear friend. It is good to hear your voice again."

"Yeah, yeah! Same here! Tell me where you are, Victor. I can come pick you up and we can get you back on your feet again."

It was very rare that Gregory would show such compassion, so its novelty stunned Fries for a moment. He quickly recovered though, as he said, "There is no need for that. There is very little you could do to help me that I have not already seen too."

"Good, good," Gregory murmured, seeming distracted. "Still, we should meet. Mariko and Dean will be thrilled to hear you're still alive!"

More colleagues. Though the reminiscing was nice, Fries had a purpose for this call. "I need you to do me a favor, Gregory."

"Sure! Anything you want!"

"You are still an investor in my wife's charity, are you not?"

There was a pause before Gregory stuttered, "Yeah, I still am. What about it?"

"I need you to request financial information for me, specifically their revenues and expenditures. Because the foundation has not gone public, they do not have to provide their financial statements for public scrutiny. It would be very appreciated if you could get them for me."

"Is that all?" Gregory sounded surprised. "I can get those for you, no sweat. How should I get them to you?"

"Do not worry about that. I will inform you how to do so when the statements are in your possession. Will three days be sufficient in obtaining them?"

"That's more than enough time, Victor. You can count on me."

"I will. Good-bye Gregory."

"Victor, wai-"

The man's words were cut off as Fries hung up. Perhaps he had been in error to seclude himself from the rest of his peers. Their help would have been very beneficial when he was first constructing his suit, but he had been much like a wounded animal back then. Wayne had damaged his psyche more than he had thought.

Holding onto the small cell phone, Fries glanced at the thug attached to the alleyway's wall. He had caught the man attempting to rob a young couple and had promptly stopped his plans. Both legs were frozen to the ground as one arm was held fast to the brick and mortar that comprised the wall. The robber's teeth were chattering as he whimpered pitifully.

"I thank you for the use of your phone," Fries stated as he fixed his eyes on the man. The robber promptly cowered away, though it was a useless effort. "I will be holding onto it for the time being. I hope you do not mind."

The robber shook his head frantically. "N-no m-man. It's y-yours."

Fries nodded his head in acceptance before turning his back on the man. "I would not mention your missing phone when the police arrive. I would be forced to have to find you again and that is something you do not want to wish for."

"I-I-I w-won't say a-a thing!"

"Good." And with that, he walked further into the alley and away from the robber. The financial records would be with him shortly and he would find out just how much involvement Falcone had with his charity. It still sickened him that they could even be mentioned in the same breath. Still, this unexpected matter must be settled and he was eager to move past it.


	20. Practically Picture It

In the distance, one could see flashes of lightning from within the approaching storm. It was a common thunderstorm, nothing more, but it was slowly making its way towards Gotham. How long it would take to reach the city was anyone's guess. An hour. Two hours. Three.

Many inhabitants had taken to staying in their homes, but it was not due to the encroaching storm. The sun had already set and the darkness of the night had settled upon the city. Not all the citizens were indoors; many were in the streets, making use of the time they had while it was still dry before it all became wet.

High above it all, the dark figure that was the Batman stood vigil. Narrow, blank, white eyes viewed the city streets, showing nothing of the thoughts that boiled through his head.

This costume man was cursing himself as unlikely as it looked. Three days ago he had broken into and confronted one of Gotham's biggest crime lords, Salvatore Maroni. He had told the mob boss to turn himself in to gain police protection from the other vigilante this city held. Maroni had all but agreed to do so after some persuasion, his only choices being prison or death.

Little had he known at the time that there was a third option and that was the one that Maroni had chosen. The crime lord had skipped town, taking what he could get his hands on and vanishing beyond the city's borders. He had even left his own thugs high and dry; they had spent the better part of a day scrambling around to hold their group together. Their efforts were for naught as they slowly splintered with the more cowardly of the lot leaving for other opportunities, be it another family or holing up in their homes.

He should have dragged Maroni to the nearest precinct to begin with, conscious or unconscious, and delivered him into law enforcement's awaiting arms. A simple note begging for protection would have enticed the police officers to take him in and hold him. That was not to be. So far Maroni was untraceable, but with some flags placed on his bank accounts, Batman would be able to discover where the mobster had hidden himself. In the meantime, he would take advantage of his absence to make it harder for him to return.

It was still a mistake though. He was still in disbelief he had been so naive as to assume a man like Maroni would turn himself in. He had expected the possibility of Maroni following Carmine Falcone's lead and turning his home into a virtual fortress—for all the good it would do him in protecting him from Fries.

It was a stupid decision and one he would not repeat. No more would he give the criminal element options. There would be repercussions from this and there was no telling what they would be. While Batman wasn't one to dwell in doubt, there was that irritating feeling nagging at him. In a city like Gotham, one action caused a greater and often more terrible reaction. If this came to bite him...

He would have to put his thoughts on hold for a moment. Something was happening below him. He tilted his head lower to watch as two men casually approached a woman from behind. Alarms went off in the Batman's head as he watched them close in on the unsuspecting girl until they were within arm's reach. In an instant, they grabbed onto her and began dragging her into an adjacent alley, the woman screaming wildly. He continued to watch, his muscles tensing as the two males below began to reveal their intentions. Light glinted off a knife, revealing at least one of them to be armed.

They were fully distracted with their prey and from the way the woman's purse was discarded to the ground, robbery may not have been their primary motive. One of the men was holding the woman from behind, restricting her movements and struggles while the one in front of her showed his weapon off to her, intimidating her into compliance. It was time to act before this progressed any further.

He leapt off the rooftop, descending down into the alley. He used his cape to slow his fall, hands grasping the material and using as a parachute, aiming for the perpetrator wielding the knife. He landing behind the man, his arm grabbing the knife-wielder by his wrist, pulling the knife away from his would-be victim. The man twisted down, surprise on his face. With his other arm, Batman delivered a chop to the side of the guy's neck, which further pushed the man to the ground as he cried out. Moving that same hand, the Bat grabbed him by the side of the man's head and slammed his head into the brick wall of the alley. The scum was out cold before he collapsed to the filthy ground.

The other man was frozen in shock, along with the woman he held. It was a moment of hesitation that the Batman took advantage of, closing the distance between him and the pair in an instant. He snatched one of the man's hands and twisted it off of the woman while he struck with a fist, his other arm passing by the woman's head harmlessly while decking her attacker. For a moment she was sandwiched between her victimizer and her savior, but Batman's attack broke the thug's precarious hold on her.

Down he went and with as gentle a shove as the dark-clad man could, he pushed the woman away as he pounced on the fallen man, striking him with his fist again to knock him out.

Despite all the action and movement that had occurred, it had all taken a little less than ten seconds. He allowed his cape to wrap around his form again as he turned to spare the woman he had saved a glance to make sure she was alright. She was staring right back at him, jaw opening and closing in disbelief at what stood before her.

"Y-you...you're him. Th-the B-batman," she stuttered.

"Go," was all he said to her and she nodded. She only stopped long enough to pick up her purse and after looking back at him once, she hurried out of the alley and out of sight. Bending down, he snatched the fallen man at his feet by the front of his shirt and began to drag him, pausing to grab his partner in crime.

Moments later, he was leaving the alley via rooftop, the two men he had apprehended left to dangle upside down from a fire escape. He left a little note as well, addressed to none other than the Gotham Police Department. By morning, someone will see them and it wouldn't be long for the authorities to bring them in.

He was on the move now, dashing across the rooftops in a randomly chosen direction. When he came to one end of a building, he used his momentum to assist his jump and leapt to the next building. The moment his feet made contact on the next building's roof, he continued to run until he reached its end and repeated the process. Once some distance had been placed between him and the recently foiled rape, he came to a stop and resumed his vigil, watching out for the people below who were unaware that he was watching them.

In plain view, the storm from earlier was still in sight and by his calculations he concluded that it was indeed moving towards Gotham. The northeastern breeze was pushing those dark clouds and the promise of rain it held closer to the city. A particularly large bolt of lightning flashed through the unseen clouds, underlining the severity of this storm.

A storm was coming to Gotham, both literally and metaphorically. Of course, the storm that was metaphorical went by the name of Victor Fries. After his attack on Falcone, Fries had gone silent, but there was this impending sense of dread growing within Batman. A man like Fries doesn't just disappear for no reason. He had been attacking Gotham's underworld in an unrelenting assault and for the first time he had stopped.

Something was brewing, Batman could feel it, sense it even. Now he was referring to himself by the name that Lois Lane had christened him with. A wry smile crossed his lips for a second as he entertained that thought. He had to admit it, the name was growing on him, and if that attempted rape victim was any indication, so was the rest of Gotham. And just as he mused on it, he quickly shoved it aside, returning to the matter at hand.

Fries, what was going through that man's head? What was motivating him to mount this crusade of his? More importantly, where was it going to end and how? It was like the calm before the storm and he feared that the storm that was Victor Fries was going to be a big one.

Call it a gut feeling—a detective's gut feeling.

He needed to find Fries. That was the bottom line. If he wanted to stem the increase in crime-related deaths, he needed to find where the man was hiding, or stop him before that statistic increased. If left unchecked, there was no telling how much damage and how many lives would be lost from the carnage that would most assuredly occur. Where would a man with Fries' peculiar needs stay that was out of sight, or not obvious but could meet all the requirements necessary to keep him alive? Where would he be able to start?

He had already gone back to the refrigerated room where Garfield Lynns had been found, hoping to find some clue or lead as to where Fries would be now. He had been unable to find anything there, further proving that Fries was a man capable of covering his tracks. He was able to do it before, when no one was looking for him, so it stood to reason that he would be able to do it now when everyone was looking for him.

Which would mean that Fries had been prepared for the chance that someone would stumble upon him and he would have to change locations quickly. A growl rumbled from his throat. The man's trail was cold once more with little chance of being picked up without him making an appearance.

That ultimately left the Batman patrolling the rooftops of Gotham with no leads to follow and the option to wait until Fries struck again. After going after Falcone, who knew who was next. He was unable to establish a pattern that Fries might be using and he was sure there was one. Whether conscious or unconscious, people always had patterns; it was in every part of their lives. Coffee drinkers would brew or buy their own coffee; addicts would find ways to get enough cash for their next fix. The trick was to find Fries' and use it to predict where he would be next.

He was behind in this game and he needed to catch up quickly if he hoped to bring some kind of order back to this city.

Movement below directed his attention towards the streets where he saw two men next to a car. Nothing out of the ordinary except that both men were huddled close to each other on the same side of the car, specifically the driver's side door. Also, neither had pulled out any keys to show some kind of ownership.

It was time to get back to work.

* * *

It was good to be back at work. Mason had nearly fallen into a drunken depression after being suspended—by Gordon of all people! That prick would get what was coming to him eventually, but right now there were more pressing matters.

Namely, his wallet was feeling quite light. It wasn't just him either; a bunch of the boys were feeling the pain as mob bosses were getting whacked one after the other. First Moxon, then Falcone, and now Maroni had disappeared. Mason was just waiting to hear the call that the Italian was in an iceberg on the river.

This had to stop.

Squeezing a stress ball with his hand—a requirement for his anger management therapy he had to follow due to an incident of police brutality he had been accused of—Mason looked at a few of his buddies huddled around his desk. O'Shane was to his right, sitting backwards on a chair with his arms resting on the chair's back. Standing in front of the desk was Pauling, who had his arms crossed casually over his chest, and to the left, sitting on the edge of the desk, was Jack McCloskey. He was mostly in robbery, but he always killed time hanging with Mason and the guys. "I've had just about enough of this Ice-Man guy," Mason grunted.

"You're telling me," O'Shane grumbled in irritation. "I got Bullock breathing down my ass on that walking snowman. What I wouldn't give for five minutes with that asshole."

"You and most of the precinct," Mason agreed. That was another thing—Bullock's sudden promotion had made an already annoying man even more intolerable. It didn't help that Gordon favored the fat ass and damn near appointed the guy to run the entire department.

"But what can we do about it?" Pauling spat out, a scowl on his face. "The Ice-Man's just disappeared the last couple of days. There hasn't been so much as an icy road."

"He's just waitin'," Mason scoffed. "He wants you to think he's done with his little circus act and then bam! He shows up and ices another mobster. Just you wait."

"Like I said, what can we do about it?" Pauling pressed insistently. "He took on Falcone and his boys and he was in a fucking fortress, Gil. We don't have half that firepower."

"We get lucky?" McCloskey said with a shrug of his shoulders. "That's about it, I think."

"And none of us can afford to wait until then," Mason retorted with a snort. "Everyone one of us has to get out into the streets and hunt this asshole down. Let's face it, the way we're doing it now just ain't working, not that you could convince Bullock of it. Gordon's spineless, so he's not gonna issue a citywide manhunt."

"What about the mayor?" O'Shane asked. "Couldn't he pressure Gordon to do something?"

"Please," Mason snorted with derision. "That asshole of a mayor is sitting on his ass, twiddling his thumbs, and letting this Ice-Man take out the mob bosses because then he doesn't have to fight against them for his reelection campaign or shit."

"He might claim all of the Ice-Man's work as his own," McCloskey joked. "Hey look, I cleaned up Gotham!"

"Yeah, get all the credit," O'Shane added. "That's what those politicians do. Do nothing and when something goes their way, take all the credit for it."

"Amen to that," Mason seconded. "We need to do something fast or else we're all going to have to start tightening our belts. None of us can afford to live a cop's salary, especially in Gotham. I spend half of my paycheck on rent alone. I put my life on the line all the time and don't you think that I, that we, all deserve to be compensated for it?"

"Damn straight," Pauling agreed.

"But what can we do?" McCloskey asked puzzled. "It's not like we can snap our fingers and stop this guy."

"That's where searching for him comes in," Mason said, sounding as if he were talking with a child. He probably was; McCloskey wasn't known for having much brains. "We all patrol around until we find this son of a bitch and put him down."

"Okay, but I heard bullets don't hurt him," Pauling said. "What do we do about that?"

"What is it with you and all these questions?" Mason shot at his fellow officer. "Shoot that jar he has on his head. It's made of glass, right? We'll see how long the space man can last in our air. He'll be like…" At this, he started making choking noises, gasping for air, and bringing out some laughs from the others. "It's not that hard. I can't believe no one's ever tried it."

"That's because the Ice-Man's been going after thugs," Pauling answered. "Those aren't the smartest guys around. They probably thought that if they shot the same spot over and over, they'd managed to shoot through that body armor, or whatever it is."

"So here's what we're going to do," Mason said. "Whoever spots him first, contact the rest of us so that we can get there as soon as possible. Hell, we could request partner changes so we all wind up together. That's two cars we only need to worry about. We stick close and when that son of a bitch shows his face, well, I hope someone's put in an order for roses."

"But I'm in robbery," McCloskey mentioned, sounding disappointed.

"That's because you're a lazy son of a bitch," Mason retorted. "Okay, so we'll be in three groups. No problem, but we need to keep this to ourselves. The less who know, the better. It can't look like a homicide, but an accident. We do this right and we're going to be rolling in dough. All those punks and gangsters will practically worship us for saving their sorry asses."

And then, Mason was sure he could convince some of those punks to do him a favor, one that ended with a trip to the morgue for Gordon. That would put an end to the wimp's career and leave him smiling for quite some time. He could practically picture it now.


	21. Rage

They would be here soon. Fries didn't mind the wait as he had done plenty of it for two years already. A couple hours would be nothing.

At his feet lay the shattered pieces of the cell phone he had taken. It had had its uses, but those were over now. A squeeze of his hand had crushed and splintered the device, effectively ending its tenure with him. He had even grounded the pieces beneath his boot to insure it was destroyed. There had been an error in his thinking when he first acquired it, that being the GPS chip that was most likely inside. The previous owner could have told the police about his missing phone and they could have tracked it right to him. Seeing as how he had yet to be attacked by law enforcement, it was safe to say the youth had yet to be either discovered, or informed the authorities of his stolen property.

It didn't matter at this point which option had been fulfilled.

Still, Fries was a cautious man, so he waited in the shadows outside of his current safe house. It was an abandoned restaurant long since forgotten by the city. The walk-in freezer had met his needs.

Holding his freeze gun up, parallel to his head, he stared out from the alley he hid in, using the large dumpster as his cover. There was a back entrance he had used to avoid the front entrance, so he had remained unseen as of now.

As per his instructions, Belson would drive up to the front of the restaurant, sit in his car for at least five minutes before entering the building. Fries would keep an eye out for any possible tail and would only enter through the back entrance when he was sure it was safe. There were people after him after all; one did not go around knocking off mob families without earning blowback.

Beams of light streaked across the alley's opening, setting Fries on edge. Soon, a small, tan car slowly passed by, a whining sound being made as it came to a stop. There was a red glow from the tail lights, a low hum from the engine as it idled. Patiently, Fries waited until he heard the motor was turned off. A car door opened, followed by two more, which immediately alarmed the man. Had Belson brought more people? Why would he do that? Who had he brought with him?

The car doors slammed and there was soft chatter, none of which Fries could make out. That set his teeth on edge. Footsteps were made until they disappeared into the building. He didn't move though, instead gazing out of the alley and lying in wait. He would have to worry about these other "guests" later; right now he had to make sure there wouldn't be any other arrivals. If there were people that followed Belson, they would reveal themselves shortly, either by slowly driving by or walking up. They would be dealt with quickly.

Minutes drug on by and nothing happened. He was a patient man, so he continued to his watch until he was certain that there would be no more unexpected guests. Satisfied, he turned and marched down the alley and took a left at the first turn. There was a dead end, but there was also the backdoor to the restaurant. Using it, Fries began working his way through the kitchen and to the front, where he could hear the quiet voices again. The closer he got, the more he was able to make out just who his uninvited guests were. He could make out Belson's smarmy voice and there was a woman's he thought sounded familiar. The third didn't talk much outside a few nervous comments.

Reaching the swinging doors that would lead him into the dining room, Fries looked through grime-covered windows, seeing the three people at a booth. Unfortunately, he couldn't make out any of their features. Tightening his grip on his gun, he pushed open the doors and stepped through.

Fries immediately recognized the overweight form of Belson, who was sitting relaxed in a rotting booth. He was aging gracefully facially, though his greying hair had receded. His suit at least was well-maintained.

The other two he identified soon after. The woman was of asian descent, her brown hair groomed to hang just above her shoulders. She had been standing nearest Belson by the booth, but had been facing away from the kitchen doors. When Fries had kicked them in, she had whipped around to stare at him through bespectacled eyes. She must have just left the lab as she was still in her lab coat and formal wear. Her name came to him an instant later: Mariko.

Dean Arbagast was the last of the group and his nervous form had nearly bolted for the door. Thin, balding, and shaking in his suit, his thin mustache twitched frantically as he tried to decide to run or duck under the table he stood next to.

"Greetings, Friends," Fries greeted them cooly, staring them down.

"Victor?" Belson asked in awe as he slowly slipped out of the booth. "Jesus Christ man, what happened to you?"

"The Ice-Man!" Arbagast yelped as he put step-after-step of distance between him. "That's the Ice-Man!"

"Your nerves are still as jumpy as ever, Dean," Fries observed dryly.

That stopped Arbagast. "You...you remember?"

"How could I ever forget?"

That was when the three approached him, slowly and cautiously. "Incredible," he heard Miriko whisper in awe. Her eyes were analyzing every last bit of his suit, trying to deconstruct it with her eyes.

As nice as it was to see his old colleagues, there were more important matters at hand. "Did you bring me the information I requested?"

Belson snapped out of his daze at that. "Yeah, I brought it." Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a thin, manilla folder. "There wasn't much and I had Dean look at them. He says there's something fishy with it all."

A small twitch of his mouth was all Fries showed as he reached out for the folder, Belson handing it over to him. Opening it, he saw a page covered with various money transactions, all to different people and companies. It didn't mean much to him, but he was somewhat pleased to see there was scarcely any mention of Falcone or other organized crime groups.

Someone cleared their throat, causing Fries to look up at a clearly uncomfortable Dean. "If you would flip to the third page, you'll see what I mean." Doing so, a frown appeared on Fries' face at what he saw. Dean further explained, "There's a series of international transactions that don't go anywhere; believe me, I checked. The companies involved don't exist. And there's one to a Mbumga Afewiki; that's the dictator of Gabon!"

At that statement, Fries clinched his hand, shutting the folder before it began to deform in his hand. "What?!" he exclaimed as he took a threatening step towards the nervous man.

"Whoa, calm down Victor," Belson said, putting himself in front of Dean and Mariko. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but that's what we found."

How could this be? Why would his wife's charity be involved with a dictator? It was bad enough there was even a mentioning of Falcone, but this was going further than he had ever expected.

"I believe I need to go see Mr. Boyle," he said through clenched teeth and seething anger.

"Victor, hold on," Mariko spoke up. "It's been so long since we saw each other. At least let us catch up before you dash off again." It was as if she had been ignoring the entire exchange before her, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she continued to stare at his suit. "I have to know where you came up with this design. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was a mobile version of our—"

"Not now." At this Fries strode towards the front door, Belson grabbing onto Mariko and moving her out of the way as Dean jumped to a side.

"Hey, is that it?" Gregory called out after him. "No good-bye?"

Fries came to a stop right in front of the doors. "It was good to see you all. I'll try to get in touch with you at a more convenient time." And with that, he pushed his way out the door and began the long trek to the Nora Fries Foundation.

* * *

Up the stairs Gordon went, a pack of cigarettes in hand, as he headed up to the roof. Was it wrong of him to be worried with the amount of smoking breaks he was starting to take? Even Barbera was getting worried about it.

Well, you know what they say, smoking is a hard habit to break. Being the commissioner of the whole Gotham City Police Department only made it harder to quit. What made it even harder to break was that he found another note in his office requesting that he come up to the roof, now. He was wondering how those notes got in with no one noticing. Did he need to deadbolt his windows or something?

The whole department was in a flurry of activity, the complete opposite of what it was a week and a half ago. That was good for him since it meant actual work was being done, but it was bad because of the circumstances that brought this change on. The fact that people who were the farthest thing from innocent had to die left a bad taste in his mouth. Even if he didn't like them and thought they should all rot in prison didn't mean that he completely agreed with the ice attacks.

Hopefully this rooftop meeting would produce something that he could work with.

Opening the door, he felt the warm air blowing against his face as he left the stairwell. The stars in the sky were blocked off by clouds that you could see when the light from the city lights reflected off them. Glancing around, Gordon made his way towards the air conditioning units where he had last met this note-leaving contact who happened to moonlight as a vigilante. He still didn't know what to think about it and his misgivings had not left him.

Let's not forget that there was more than one vigilante in this city and he was tasked to bring both of them in. Even if public support was against him, his duty was his duty. It still didn't help him with the fact that here he was, meeting up with one of those vigilantes whom he was trying to capture. Not only that, this vigilante came and went as he pleased.

Gordon didn't think setting up an ambush during one of these "business meetings" would be very effective. Odds were this Batman would spot his men and refuse to come. Trained as they were, cops were quite noticeable when setting up something big like an ambush.

At least it was warm out here despite the ice that was becoming a regular presence despite the fact that this was an irregular season for such a thing. He fiddled with the packet of cigarettes, glancing from side to side as if searching for someone or looking out for others that shouldn't be here.

Okay, no one was here. At least there was no one that he could see. Now where was this unlikely ally he had found himself communicating with? If only he had a way to contact him somehow. Maybe some kind of signal?

The familiar sound of flapping reached his ears then. Immediately, Gordon looked up to see if it was coming from atop one of the units, finding none of them occupied. Frowning, he unconsciously rose to his tippy-toes to try and get a better look, but found no sight of the vigilante. With a disappointed grunt, he put his full weight back on his feet and hesitantly turned around.

Gordon nearly jumped ten feet as he yelped in surprise. Standing next to one of the A/C units was the Batman, who gazed at him impassively, almost as if he were standing there the entire time. His cape hung limply around him, hiding his body from sight.

"Warn a man before sneaking up on him," Gordon reprimanded, a hand clutching at his chest to try and slow down his hammering heart. Expectedly, the Batman didn't reply, once more choosing to stare him down. "I take it this isn't a social call either. What do you want?"

"Fries has been quiet," the vigilante declared. "Too quiet for someone as high-profile as he is."

"Who's Fries?" Gordon demanded. "What does that have to do with anything?"

There was a derisive snort before the man answered, "Victor Fries, former employee of Wayne Enterprises, suffered an accident in one of the facilities and cannot survive outside of a suit engineered to create an environment at subzero temperatures. You know him as the 'Ice-Man.'"

Gordon paused as he digested the information. "How long have you known about this and didn't bother to share it with me, with the Gotham City Police Department?" he asked after a moment. "We could have used that information a while ago, to maybe track that madman down before anymore people were killed."

"I already tried," was the stoic response. "Fries went underground following his accident and didn't reappear until Garfield Lynns stumbled upon him. I haven't been able to find a trace of him in the intervening years nor his current movements; there's no way your men would have been able to uncover that."

"But you still should have given us something," Gordon argued. "You want to clean up Gotham right? Then you have to trust us, trust me. You came to me, remember? You wanted to help me so help me, damn it!" He glared with all his might at the masked vigilante, willing his anger to force any kind of reaction out of him.

Not unexpectedly, the Batman remained silent. The commissioner wasn't too surprised by the reaction and figured that he would have to keep the conversation rolling when the man grunted out, "You're right."

That was the equivalent of throwing cold water on him, but the flames of his anger were ready to be reignited again if needed. "So what now?" Gordon asked instead of focusing on things that were too late to be changed. "How do we go about this Victor Fries situation?"

"Unfortunately, I haven't been able to come up with one. The only time Fries appears is when he attacks mob families. The three biggest ones have already been taken out with Moxon and Falcone being killed and Maroni fleeing the city. The Russians are weakening themselves without Mashkov, so that leaves Stromwell and Loman as viable targets."

"So we beef up security around Stromwell and Loman, maybe put them into police protection," Gordon said. "Unless…" he trailed off then picked up again, "...unless you want to use one of them as live bait."

There was a slight twitch at the corner of the Batman's mouth, something resembling a smirk appearing on his face. Then as sudden as it had appeared, it disappeared. "I'll be keeping Loman under surveillance. You do the same with Stromwell. Sooner or later, Fries will strike one of them and we'll be there to stop him."

"Christ," Gordon muttered, the idea leaving a bad taste in his mouth. "I don't like this. Not one bit. At the same time, what else can we do? I still want officers near Loman. We don't need you being exposed more than you already have been, do we?"

"You're going to need all the men you can get your hands on," the vigilante retorted. "As far as I can tell, his suit is bulletproof, so you'll need every able man on call to take him down if he hits Stromwell. I can take care of myself should he go after Loman."

"Bulletproof," Gordon grumbled, not liking the sound of that. "I'll notify every precinct and try to get in touch with both Stromwell and Loman and see if I can convince them to turn themselves in. It's a long shot, but I'd rather we have them here and not at two different parts of the city. Who knows, maybe having both of them in the same place will be too tempting for this Fries fellow to resist."

"Doubtful. He's not going after imprisoned men, he's going after the one's in the streets. Otherwise he would have hit Blackgate already."

"Someone has to be the optimist around here, but I see your point. Maybe we can use that to convince Stromwell and Loman to come in," Gordon said. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Is there anything else you would like to tell me?" he asked as he put his glasses back on.

He blinked dumbly as he found no one there. The Batman had disappeared again. How did he do that?

With a sigh, he pulled out a cigarette and lit up. It was not going to be easy doing what he had told this Batman character, but he was going to have to do something about all this. At least now he had an idea of what he could do.

As he inhaled a lungful of nicotine, he wondered what else he could be expecting from this vigilante mess he found himself in.

* * *

For a man that wore a refrigerated suit, you would think it would be quite difficult to infiltrate a well-guarded building. That assumption was proven wrong as Fries had committed that very act successfully, though he was highly suspicious of the amount of security around the charity. The number of guards were higher than he had expected.

Which raised the question: why did a charity need such security? It was expected that there would be a night patrol, but only perhaps four or five men. There were fifteen roaming outside and inside of the building. Though attentive, Fries evaded them all without one of them suspecting his presence.

Standing inside of Francis Boyle's office, Fries stood stiffly behind the large oak desk, staring down at the computer that rested on it. Setting his freeze gun down on top of the desk, he activated the computer and waited for it to awake. Immediately, a password login menu appeared. Although irritated at first, Fries was pleasantly surprised to find the login name and password already filled in. Apparently Boyle wasn't one to manually type in his security safeguards—a boon for Fries.

Hitting the enter button, he once more waited for the desktop to appear with its various icons. Scanning each icon, he didn't find what he sought, so he reached down to the mouse and move it, the clicker arrow sweeping across the screen until it reached the "start" button on the lower left corner. Clicking on it, a menu opened and Fries immediately accessed the document tab.

A window soon popped up with more icons, these representing various documents that Boyle had been working on. Scanning through them, Fries finally found one that caught his interest. There had been a few documents named after various continents, ones Fries assumed were involved in the foundation. Accessing the Africa document, he saw it appear on screen and immediately began reading.

With every word he read, his hands clenched tighter and tighter until the computer mouse shattered in his hand. This...this couldn't be! How could Boyle do such a thing?! This foundation was meant for the betterment of people's lives, not...not this!

A rattling sound interrupted Fries' thoughts, forcing him to look up towards the door and watching as it opened. A figure stepped through the doorway, the person not even paying attention to his surroundings as they somehow missed the glow of the computer monitor. Instead, they reached out to a light switch and flicked it on as they closed the door behind him. And it was a him—a man that Fries had been wanting to see for the last few hours.

Francis Boyle came to an immediate halt as he finally saw Fries standing behind his desk, glaring back at him. "What? Who are you?" the man demanded. "What are you doing in my office?"

Straightening his posture, Fries casually reached to his weapon on the desk and wrapped his fingers around the grip. He didn't raise it, he didn't need to at this point. "And why should I not be here, Boyle? It bears my wife's name, does it not?"

Boyle froze upon hearing that before recognition hit him. "Victor Fries? But, I thought you were—"

"Dead? Hardly." Stepping around the desk, inadvertently dragging his freeze gun off of it and letting it hang at his side, he added, "But you will wish that I were after what I have just found out."

Boyle's frightened eyes glanced to his computer before going back to Fries. The enraged man watched intently as the charity's CEO tried to come up with something to say, anything that would placate him. When he failed to, Boyle swung around and ran for the door.

Whipping his gun up, Fries let out a short blast of his freeze gun, the beam hitting the door before Boyle could get to it and covered a portion of it in ice, specifically where the doorknob was. Letting out a cry, the businessman backed away a couple of steps from his sealed off exit. And yet, Fries was not done. As Boyle hesitantly turned to face him again, he fired another blast at the man's feet, freezing them to the floor. A louder shout tore from Boyle's mouth as he looked down in horror at the ice covering his feet and lower legs.

"You will not be leaving this room until you answer for what you've done," Fries growled as he strode closer to the terrified man, stopping a few steps away. "Explain yourself."

"Ex-explain what, Victor?" Boyle stuttered in fear.

The urge to break something filled Fries, but he did not act on it. Rage would be needed later. Instead, he raised his freeze gun and fired another short blast at Boyle's right knee, causing more ice cover the leg from mid-thigh down. Again, the man cried out as he was most assuredly feeling the biting chill of numbness.

He spoke slowly, methodically, to make sure he was not misunderstood. "I want to know why you are selling firearms and weapons to an African dictator who pays you in conflict diamonds."

"V-victor," Boyle said, his teeth chattering together. Fries liked to think it was still from fear rather than the coldness of the ice covering parts of his body. "I-it was a one time t-thing. O-only business, you see."

Another beam hit the man in the left knee and traveled up to his hip, ice covering the entire leg and part of his lower abdomen. "Victor, stop!" he cried out.

"Lies!" Fries shouted in rage. "You willfully profited off the death and suffering of innocents! That is the exact opposite of what this foundation is for! You...you've destroyed my wife's good name!"

Again, he fired his freeze gun, covering everything beneath Boyle's chest in ice. Helpless, Boyle pushed down on the growing ice, his face twisted in horror. He finally stopped as the chill overwhelmed him, causing him to cross his arms over his chest in a pointless attempt to warm them. What remained of his body shivered openly, something that Fries relished. "Y-you don't u-u-understand," he pitifully said. "We...we didn't…"

"You didn't what," Fries coldly stated. There was no need for a question.

Boyle shook his head as if to calm his most-assuredly frightened mind. "No choice. No choice," he managed to spit out. "The guy, Afewiki, h-he threatened to k-k-ill all of o-our workers. W-we c-c-couldn't not help th-those people, s-so we did one deal. T-that's it."

"Is that all?" Fries questioned.

"Yes! I-I swear it!"

"Then explain to me why it is you were paid for your service? If you were forced into it, why the diamonds?"

Boyle hesitated at that. He had been caught in a lie and he knew it. This further incensed Fries. Raising his gun, he pointed it right at Boyle's face and delighted at the terror that overcame the man. "Again, you lie to me. You insult my intelligence and desecrate the very memory of the woman I love. For that," his voice deepened further, "_you will pay_."

"No! Don't!" Boyle screamed.

Fries pulled the trigger and watched as the rest of Boyle was sealed inside of ice; yet he didn't stop. He continued to move the beam all over the man until a large chunk of ice sat in the room, nearly touching the ceiling.

And still, Fries was not satisfied. There was no way his anger could be sated with the elimination of the man who besmirched his wife's memory. Her name was now synonymous with evil, something that should never had been associated with such an angel.

Boyle had done this all in the name of profit. He had...no, no it hadn't been Boyle. He was merely a product of his environment, a symptom of a much larger problem. In all of his life, never had he seen such corruption and evil as he had in Gotham. It was as if it twisted people into doing unspeakable things. Immoral actions that weren't done anywhere else were done here with regularity; Boyle, Falcone, Moxon, Lynns, they were all such examples. They were the tools used to destroy morality and kindness.

No more, he wouldn't let this continue any further!

Looking to Boyle's desk, he saw a telephone set on it. Taking a step to it, he picked up the phone and set it on the desk, and then dialed in a familiar number. Hitting the speakerphone button, he could hear the ringing created by his call. And then it stopped as Belson answered, "Hello?"

"Gregory, I have a favor to ask of you—as a friend in need."

"R-really? I mean, of course Victor! What can I do to help?"

Fries steeled his features. There was much to do, but it would be done. As Gregory had indicated, it wouldn't take much to convince him and the others to assist him in this endeavor. Everything he had done up to this point was meaningless, especially when compared to the true cause of this city's suffering. Just the very thought made him boil. And for once, Fries truly felt something, a feeling he had thought long dead with all of his others.

Rage.


	22. Holy Hell

Mason gazed out the window of the patrol car, enjoying his time being chauffeured. Personally he liked being in the driver's seat, but every once in awhile a man needed to be pampered. If it just so happened to be in a law enforcement vehicle while he wore a badge, then so be it.

O'Shane was keeping a watch out, keeping the car at cruising speeds as they made their way down the streets of Gotham. Mason knew he should be on the lookout for bastards in spacemen outfits who might be walking about and offing the scumbags that supplemented his income, but it had been some time since the Ice-Man showed his helmet-obstructed face.

What were the odds that he was going to show up out of the blue today?

Well, it would be best to check in with the others and see that they weren't slacking off. Picking up a walkie-talkie that was on a frequency not used by law enforcement or medical services, he spoke, "Pauling, McCloskey, what's the word? Over."

_"Nothing Mason. Over."_

_"I don't see anything on my end and haven't heard anything. Over."_

"Roger that. Keep your eyes peeled. Over," Mason replied and set the walkie-talkie down.

Yeah, it seemed kinda dumb that he would have a walkie-talkie in a car that had a radio that could keep him in contact with the others, but Mason didn't want anyone finding out what they were up to. It was too big a risk to use the radio equipment in the car. Who knew who would be listening? Plus they needed to use the radio for their regular duties and it would be too much of a hassle to keep switching frequencies.

In order not to blow their cover, they would have to respond to emergencies like the cops they were. Fortunately, the worst emergencies at the moment were car accidents. There were no stand-offs with some punks who had stupidly gotten themselves cornered in and the usual busts were not taking place nowadays. Big guess as to what was the cause of that.

If anything, the rates of crime had dropped. The mob families were in lockdown mode or fleeing the city, their flunkies were holing up anywhere they could in the hopes the Ice-Man wouldn't turn them into popsicles, and even the most ballsy punk was skittish. People were keeping to their homes if only so they didn't get caught up in any of the Ice-Man's attacks.

The media was eating this up. Oh, if Mason could have five minutes alone with that bitch writing all those pieces about that fucking Ice-Man, he'd show her how to keep her mouth shut.

"See anything?" he asked, speaking to O'Shane.

"You're seeing the same shit as me. What do you think?" O'Shane retorted.

"Don't take that tone with me," Mason shot back. "I'll pistol whip you, you son of a bitch."

"Whatever," O'Shane rolled his eyes, taking a turn at the next intersection. This wasn't the best area of Gotham to be, but Mason figured that if there was any place that the Ice-Man would strike, it would be in a part of the city where the scumbags hung out.

_"Hey Mason? I think I see something. Over"_

"What is it Pauling?" Mason snapped into the walkie-talkie. "Speak to me. Over."

_"I think...no wait, it is him! I see the fucking Ice-Man! Over, Goddamn it!"_ Pauling exclaimed.

"Where the hell are you? Over!" Mason demanded, gesturing at O'Shane to get their asses in gear.

_"I'm at Cisero and 34rd. You'd better get here quickly!"_

Ignoring Pauling's "over," Mason roared at McCloskey, "You hear that, Jack? Cisero and 34rd. Over." Turning to O'Shane, "Step on it! Let's get this asshole!"

* * *

It had been quite some time since Victor Fries had strolled. Most times he was absorbed with a task and he was quick to accomplish it. Now though, he walked without urgency; he took his time with each step that touched cracked asphalt.

This was in stark contrast to the blaring of car horns and screaming people as they fled. With his ice gun raised, Fries fired a steady beam to his right, freezing each building as he slowly swept the ice blast to his left. Once he was done with the buildings to his right, he took aim and fired at several cars that were stopped in front of him, taking a moment to marvel at the ice that appeared on the vehicles. In some of them were frantic people vainly hitting on doors that would not move and glass that would not break. Their panic would be their undoing.

Reaching an intersection, Fries finally came to a stop and glanced around him. Frozen cars stood behind him as others were stopped in front and to his sides. There were moving cars that were going as far as they could from him as possible, but then it was most likely a result of them receiving a green light beforehand. Fries cared not for those.

Starting at one side, Fries once more fired his gun and spun in a slow circle. Soon, the intersection was covered in ice, glacial walls covering the buildings, cars, and street, icicles hanging from the streetlamps and traffic lights. There were even thick statues of escaping people forever frozen in ice, mouths wide open in silent screams. The very sight of it soothed the man's internal emotion.

It wasn't as profound as it was before, but there was an ever-present, underlying anger that continued to seethe within him. And it was this..._feeling_…that demanded that he share it with the people of Gotham. They were the source of it all, not one of them innocent or deserving of mercy.

In the distance he could make out the faint wails of police sirens. This didn't bother Fries in the least as he once more began walking, ice cracking and splintering with every step he made. That ended when he reached the asphalt and once more fired his ice gun. Sadly, there weren't any nearby people, but the streets would have to suffice.

If Fries had been anyone else, he would have grown bored with this mindless work; to him though, it was exactly what he needed to do. Examples had to be made, ones etched in the very foundation of the city so it could not be forgotten. For this he would be eternally patient and thorough.

As he reached another intersection, winter wonderland left in his wake, he spied out of the corner of his eyes movement. Turning his head, he saw three police cars racing towards him, only slowing down as they reached the intersection. One police car swerved to a side and came to a screeching stop in front of the parked cars in the right lane while another simply spun to its side and stopped, facing the opposite direction of the first car.. The third also slide to a stop, parked parallel to the first two cars, though slightly behind them. Immediately, doors flew open and two policemen flew out of one of the cars, the other two cars only revealing a single drive each. The cops on the sides closest to Fries partially hid behind their car doors as the others took cover behind the cars themselves. Each man had a gun pulled and aimed right at Fries.

"Freeze, you walking ice bucket!" one of the men shouted.

A scowl appeared on Fries' face before he raised his ice gun at them. "That's Mr. Freeze to you."

The police officers immediately began firing their guns at him, but they were of no consequence as each bullet bounced off of his suit harmlessly. Squeezing the trigger of his gun, the familiar blue beam fired out and hit the rightmost car, freezing it along with the officer crouching in front of it. Moving his arm, he did the same to the leftmost car and policeman, who had gotten an arm up in front of his face and was twisting to a side as if to turn and run.

"Jesus Christ!" one of the remaining officers cried out before turning and running. His friend copied him a moment later. Neither were able to make it far as Fries hit one with a short blast, freezing his legs to the ground, doing the same to the other. Another beam froze the rest of the furthest man a second later.

Which left only one more officer. He was still trying to move his legs in vain, his hands pushing down on the ice that surrounded his waist. "No, no, not like this!" he cried out before stopping. Slowly, he turned his head so he could look right at Fries, his fear evident on his face. "Please, I'm beggin' ya, don't kill me."

Fries merely finished him off with another blast, trapping him forever in a silent scream. "It is far too late to beg," he stated calmly. In fact, it was too late for anyone to ask for mercy for there would be none offered. Everyone could flee for their lives and it would not matter—their fates were sealed the moment Nora was desecrated.

Turning his gun back to the rest of unfrozen Gotham, Fries unleashed his fury once more.

* * *

"There's trouble downtown."

Those were the words that were first uttered as the door to his office was forced open. From behind his desk, Gordon looked up and took in the tense form of Lieutenant Essen. Behind her there was a flurry of activity that he was still getting used to seeing. In the past few days, the GCPD finally resembled something that looked like a police department. Just a week ago, he could count how many there were working beyond his office with ease.

None of that subtracted from the fact that Essen's words were troubling.

"What kind of trouble?" he asked though from the tone of his voice, you could tell he wasn't asking.

"The Ice-Man has reappeared," Essen reported and Gordon didn't need to hear anymore. He had known all along that someone like this Victor Fries wasn't going to go away and leave the rest of Gotham alone. He was a man with a vendetta, specifically one against Gotham's criminal underworld. He wouldn't stop until every criminal figure was frozen solid.

It was just a matter of time.

Those questions would have to wait for the moment, but maybe the answers wouldn't be long in coming. Once again, this was their chance to capture Fries and hopefully those answers would be forthcoming. Of course, they had to capture him and so far, from what he had heard, that was easier said than done.

Then Essen's next words pierced through his thoughts and his blood ran cold.

"He's hitting everything. Buildings, cars, bystanders. Everything. He's not restricting himself to organized crime," Essen informed him.

Escalation. Fries was escalating. He had feared this would happen. Fries wasn't content with the underworld anymore. Now it was everything else.

"I want SWAT out there," he ordered. "Every available officers you can find, I want them on the streets. I don't care if they're homicide or metermaids. I want everyone out there and I want this man stopped."

Reaching to a drawer, he pulled it out and snagged the gun that laid within. He made a quick check to see if it was loaded as he stood up from his chair. Full round, locked and loaded, safety was on, but there was a good chance that would be changing.

"Uh, Commissioner? What are you doing?" Essen asked.

"When I said everyone, I meant it," Gordon said as he reached for his coat. "I'm going out there and I don't care if something happens to me. I'm not about to let this maniac get away with this. Tell everyone that lethal force is authorized. We're bringing this son of a bitch down one way or another.

"I want the exact location of where Fries is. I don't care how how's he stopped, I want this finished today. Any questions?"

"Only one, sir," Essen answered. "Your car or mine?"

* * *

Cars and intersections flew by as blurs as Batman raced through the streets. His sleek black car weaved through the surrounding vehicles with ease, crossing from lane to lane at high speeds. Most people wouldn't be able to tell what had passed by them aside from the back fenders that rose above the back tires. It was to create a wing-like appearance to add more speculation to the mystery that surrounded him, or so he had told Alfred. There were other modifications as well, such as the front slanting downwards to increase aerodynamics, not to mention plating most of it with reinforced steel should he have to ram something. However, most people hadn't seen the car, so there hadn't been any further stories of a demon—or bat, if you asked Lane—riding some roaring beast.

But now everyone was getting a nice view of it as it tore down the streets at a breakneck pace. Loman had set up shop in Chinatown and that's where he had been keeping an eye on him in case Fries showed. The next thing he knew, the police scanner he had set up at his stakeout position had gone haywire with sightings of Fries downtown.

That was puzzling. Moxon was the only mob boss that blatantly used downtown as his base of operations and he had already been dealt with; there was no reason for the man to be there. Further reports blasted through the scanner indicated Fries seemed to be heading for the financial district, something the Bat didn't like. That was one of the cleaner areas of the city and thus held no target for Fries; there was no reason for him to be going there. About the only thing the Batman could think of was that Fries had shifted targets from criminals to crooked accountants.

An even more likely guess was that the man had decided to attack civilians, something the Bat had feared would happen at some point. Not this soon surely, but that seemed to be the case. And like he had vowed, he would be there to stop the "Ice-Man" should he choose that path.

Pressing the gas pedal harder, he heard the engine roar louder before quieting as it adjusted to the new speed. It was a good thing he had put sound dampeners in the cockpit, otherwise that engine would deafen him before too long.

As Batman passed through another intersection, he soon spied a sign for 41st Street—right on time. Hitting the brake pedal, the wheels squealed from the sudden friction as he turned the car to the left, the back of the vehicle sliding around, nearly fishtailing. The moment he was facing down 41st, he hit the accelerated and flew down the street, fully in control of the car.

It was here that Batman began seeing signs of Fries' work. There were cars parked further down the road and a distinct lack of people. Fries was somewhere up ahead. Last he had heard from the scanner, the former scientist had been walking down Cisero. Sooner or later that road would intersect with 41st and the Bat would be that much closer to the Ice-Man.

However, all of those parked cars in front of him would not let him through without destroying them. Instead, he pulled the car onto the oncoming traffic lanes, which were empty aside from the stray car. It was soon after he sped down these lanes that he came across Fries' handiwork.

Further down the street was a large wall of ice that stretched the entire way across the intersection, sealing off 41st from Cisero. Any other day Batman would have marveled at it, but not tonight. Pressing harder on the gas pedal, the car raced towards the wall, the distance between the closing quickly.

And yet, the Batman was unperturbed. Releasing one hand from the semi-circle steering wheel, he reached for a small panel right in front of the gear shift. With practiced ease, he pressed one of the buttons on the console and waited. It would take a couple of seconds, but the headlights were currently being extended out of the face of the car and sliding around to the sides. Thin barrels would be emerging shortly after, prepped to fire powerful shells. They may have been small, but they had enough firepower to blast through a cement wall.

A wall of ice would be an adequate target.

Returning his hand back to the steering wheel, he used both of his thumbs to put pressure on the tops of the wheel. With a click, the tops popped off, revealing small red buttons, which Batman placed his thumbs on.

With every second he waited, the ice wall grew closer. Either he would blow his way through it, or crash right into it in a blaze of glory. It was as if he was playing chicken with it. And yet, there was no anxiety as the distance between them disappeared at an alarming rate. In fact, the Batman would have said he was calm. He was at peace with himself for what felt like the first time in quite awhile. He had half a mind to not fire the mini-cannons and just stay like this forever.

He pressed the buttons.

* * *

A thunderous roar erupted behind Fries, causing him to jerk around. Large chucks of ice were flying through the air from a wall of ice a few blocks down. White clouds of smoke covered the street from side to side as the ice debris crash to the ground, sending out tremors the man could feel through his feet.

A dark shape suddenly raced from the damaged wall and came to a stop, accompanied with a high-pitched squeal. At first it had been long, but now it was short and squat. Fries wasn't too sure what it was due to the blanket of smoke disguising its features, but he tightened his grip on his ice gun for reassurance.

Soon, the smoke dissipated, revealing a black car facing him, shaking slightly from the growling engine that powered it. It was low to the ground and not very long. Fenders rose in the back, appearing like metal wings. There was a dark, intimidating aura that hung around it the longer he stared at it.

Fries knew exactly who was in that vehicle.

Seconds dragged on as he stared the car down. It seemed the dark vigilante was hesitating within that metal beast of a machine, neither climbing out of the car nor driving. He was waiting for something.

And then the tires began to spin, kicking up steam from the ice on the ground instantly heated by the friction, causing a painfully high-pitched squeal. The car then shot forward, racing towards Fries with every intent to run him down. Fulling facing the vehicle, Fries felt no fear as he observed the shirking distance between him and that sleek, black car.

Raising his ice gun up, he took aim at the road between him and the approaching vehicle and fired. The beam instantly froze the ground, covering it in a thin layer of ice. Moving his arm from side to side, he covered every inch of the asphalt with the ice, only releasing the trigger when he was satisfied.

The moment the car reached the icy road, its wheels predictably lost traction, causing the driver to lose control. From side to side, the black vehicle swayed, it's front going in one direction and the back in another and then switching. Ultimately, it ended up sliding towards front-first towards one side of the street, going right for an ice-covered street lamp.

Fries was mildly surprised when the car plowed into the tall, metal lamp and shattered its icy base. The pole fell to the side and landed on the ground, shattering into large shards. As for the car, it jerked back towards the road in an attempt to get back onto the street. It was all in vain though as the side of the vehicle slammed into the side of the building and it came to a final stop.

Fries stared at the wreck impassively for a moment before he began walking towards it, the crunching of ice beneath his feet filling his ears with every step he took. It was not unexpected he wound come into contact with the city's other vigilante, but if there was someone Fries did not want to fight right now, it was him. It was not out of fear, but of respect for the only other person to attempt to save this fallen city. He owed him the opportunity to save himself.

* * *

Batman was rattled. The crash had not been a pleasant experience, jarring him and traumatizing his body. Once he was sure it was over, he immediately assessed the damages. There wasn't any intense pain nor searing or sharp. He was definitely aching though, and everything seemed off-kilter. He didn't detect any broken bones and there wasn't any external injuries. As far as internal, he didn't feel any different other than his body trying to reestablish homeostasis. His brain was rattled though, and it was taking far longer than he would have liked to reorient himself.

But he fought through the daze and became alert. Damages to the car could be done later; the last thing he wanted to be was sealed inside while Fries went on his destructive course. Hitting a switch on the side of the door, the roof and windshield jolted upward before sliding forward. Unclipping his seat belt harness, the Batman hauled himself out of the car and attempted to stand with sure footing on the ground, instead stumbling as he tried to find his balance.

A moment later the Bat was clumsily jumping to a side, using his hands to press against the ground and allowing him to go into a roll. Where he had been standing, a bright beam raced by and hit his car, encrusting it with ice. His momentum allowed him to land on his back for a split second before springing onto his feet, albeit wobbly, and made sure to face where that ice blast had come from.

Fries stood several feet away, his ice gun slowly being lowered to his side. He didn't look especially happy to see the Batman, but then most people weren't. Yet, it was still a reversal of their last conversation and the vigilante got the distinct impression this meeting was not going to end with them walking away.

"I had hoped you would not come," Fries called out then, a hint of regret in his voice. "Yet, I suppose this was inevitable."

"It didn't have to be," Batman responded quickly. He straightened out his posture, letting his cape envelop him and hide his body from sight. "I don't know what started you on this path, but it needs to end _now_. Put down your weapon and turn yourself in before more people suffer."

"Suffering is only a small pittance of what these people deserve," Fries shot back, his tone laced with venom. "This entire city is rotting around us, changing good people into the very evil you and I have been fighting. It has to be stopped."

Batman scowled at those words. It was like staring at a self-fulfilling prophecy and he hated it. "You're losing yourself, Fries. You've lost sight of the real bad guys."

"To the contrary, my eyes are wide open," the refrigerated man countered with conviction. "I have finally seen what the source of the evil and corruption within this so-called society is and I am bringing my quest for justice against it. You and I are fighting the same enemy, Batman, but while you merely fight the symptoms, I am going for the source.

"And it is because of this that I extend to you this offer: leave Gotham while you can. My quarrel is not with you, but the people of Gotham. You are the only person worth saving in this cesspool and it behooves me to grant you the opportunity." He paused for a moment before adding, "This will be the only time I extend this offer."

"You know I can't accept that," Batman replied lowly. "I will stop you."

Fries lowered his head within the glass encasing of his suit, shaking it sadly. "I felt you would say that, but I wished you could be persuaded otherwise."

When Fries' head raised back up, the Batman knew exactly what would happen. During their short conversation, he had brought his right hand up to his belt and removed one of his bat-shaped shuriken from its pouch. The moment Fries began raising his freezing weapon, the dark vigilante used his left arm to fling open his cape and allow his throwing arm to send the shuriken flying. It spun through the air, arcing as it closed the distance towards Fries and its intended target, the gun.

However, Fries merely aimed his ice gun and fired a short blast, that familiar high-pitched blare and following dulling sound echoing as the beam covered the shuriken. A second later, Fries released the trigger and the beam disappeared, revealing the metal projectile trapped inside a chunk of ice. Momentum allowed it to continue flying through the air, but gravity ultimately caused it to fall to the ground, clattering on it after landing.

"The same trick will not work twice," Fries boasted as he reset his sights on the Batman, aiming his weapon right at him. "How unfortunate for you."

A growl left the Batman's lips before he took off running to his right. A second later and an ice beam flew right where he had been standing, hitting the building in its path and causing a burst of giant, jagged icicles to extend. Arms pumping and cape billowing out behind him, the dark vigilante ran as fast as he could as the beam gave chase, the steady arm of Fries guiding it as more and more ice sprouted in the wake of the attack.

Eyeing a car, the Batman dove behind it, rolling into a crouch a second later. The vehicle proved useful as Fries' beam covered the partially-iced barrier and completely freezing it with protruding ice stalagmites rising high into the air. Edging away from his cover, the vigilante reached into his belt and pulled out two bolas, handing one to his other hand and simultaneous rotating his wrists to spin them. This was going to take split-second timing and a hell of a lot of luck to pull off. Unfortunately, he couldn't think of too much else to do at the moment.

Dashing out from behind the frozen car, Batman threw with all his might the first bola, followed quickly by the second. Both spinning bolas arced through the air, flying towards Fries from opposite sides.

And just as he hoped, Fries took the bait. Aiming his freeze gun at the left bola, he froze it with a short beam, pausing the steam long enough to re-aim at the right bola and blast it as well. Those actions allowed the Batman to close the distance between them quickly, leaping up into the air and extending a leg out. Letting his momentum carry him the remaining distance, his foot struck the former scientist on his right shoulder, causing the man to cry out as his body jerked backwards awkwardly. Instinctively, Fries' hand spasmed, loosening his hold on his gun and dropping it to the ground.

Bending his leg, Batman used it to push off of his opponent, allowing him to land on the ground a small distance away. Taking advantage of Fries' sudden vulnerability, the vigilante launched himself at the man, lashing out with vicious blows to his foe's torso. First his right, then his left slammed into the suit's chest, forcing Fries to take a reluctant step back with each hit, coupled with low grunts. Again and again, he wailed on the man, not letting up for a second.

As Batman threw another punch with his right, however, Fries suddenly shot an arm up, his hand grabbing onto the man's forearm. Unperturbed, the vigilante tried to punch with his other arm, obtaining the same result. An enraged look covered Fries' face as he said, "That's enough!" He then leaned back and raised a leg between them, kicking out and ramming his foot into the Batman's chest with the force of a truck slamming into him. Releasing his hold, the Ice-Man allowed his dark counterpart to fly backwards through the air until he crashed to the ground on his back.

The moment he came to a stop, Batman reached up to his chest, where he had been kick, and grasped at it with his hands, a hoarse cough tearing out of his mouth. He tried to gasp for air around the coughs, trying to regain his breath. The force of that blow had caught him off guard and he was paying the price for it.

"You fight well, Batman," Fries' dispassionate voice suddenly called out, stilling the dark vigilante's squirming. "But you stand no choice. The circuitry of my suit triples my strength and increases my defensive capabilities."

And that kick felt every bit like three men, Batman silently groused. It was entirely likely he hadn't caused a bit of damage to his subzero counterpart aside from some mild discomfort—something he did not like thinking about. Tilting his head up, he watched as Fries recalled his ice gun with the activation of his magnetic retrieval device. With gun in hand, the other man fully faced the vigilante, keeping his weapon at his side.

"I believe we know the winner of this contest," Fries spoke stoically. "Unfortunately, you will have to join the rest of this city's population in its icy slumber. Know that I do this with great reluctance."

Batman merely grimaced at those words as he watched his opponent finally raise his gun and take aim at him. Any second now he would hear the weapon go off and end him much like the other men that found themselves at the feet of Fries.

And yet, nothing happen. Instead, the Ice-Man's attention was drawn away from the dark vigilante by a loud, thwacking sound. Following Fries' gaze, Batman soon saw a news helicopter high in the air, quickly approaching them.

"Vultures," Fries spat out venomously. "Have they no respect?"

Then to Batman's horror, Fries turned his ice gun towards the helicopter and fired at it. The pilot tried his best to avoid the beam, but was hit along one side, along with the main propellers. Immediately, the blades came to a stop, ice cover them with small icicles hanging down. The effect was instantaneous.

The newscopter dropped from the sky, its momentum allowing it to drift forward. And as luck would have it, its crash zone was going to be right on top of the Batman.

Holy Hell.


End file.
